


A Lost and Fallen Fragment

by Midna_Ronoa



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Crying During Sex, Dirty Talk, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Laughter During Sex, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, Past Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sharing a Bed, this fic really got away from me huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26304508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midna_Ronoa/pseuds/Midna_Ronoa
Summary: The Exalted Council has been Cullen's worst nightmare for months.The Iron Bull really wants them to be able to spend time together.To no one's surprise, nothing goes according to plan.
Relationships: The Iron Bull/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 31
Kudos: 57
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	1. A Sea of Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dragonflies_and_Katydids](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/gifts).



> This is my gift from the Black Emporium Exchange 2020 for the wonderful [Dragonflies and Katydids](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids), whose work I admire very deeply and as a way of paying her back for so many hours spent reading such excellent fics I said "Hey! Let's write some Cullen/Bull, which is one of my favourite Dragon Age ships and was introduced to me via her work. Also, let's try to explore some canon stuff that's been wildly missing in this tag."  
> And thus the resulting fic!  
> Thanks a bunch as always to [3SpidersWithAPen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3SpidersWithAPen/pseuds/3SpidersWithAPen) for betaing.  
> I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it <3

“And if you are the object of any kind of undesired attention?”

“Deflect with as much grace as possible and contact the closest Inquisition agent in the room,” Lavellan and Cullen drone out for the fourth time that afternoon. It’s not that Cullen envies the Inquisitor, but he most certainly envies how carelessly he’s mostly lying on top of the improvised war-table they have cobbled up in the command tent.

“Good!” Josephine beams, her gaze straying for an almost imperceptible second to the spot where Leliana—no, Divine Victoria—used to stand, her smile turning pensive.

Cullen understands, he’s done the same far too often; from asking runners to deliver a message to someone no longer there, to customarily visit a barren altar at a seemingly unmanned rookery.

“Now, it is important to remember that the Exalted Council will be a historical landmark, no matter its outcome. We are tasked with making it outstanding, and it better not be due to any of our allies’ behaviour, so please—”

“Commander!” The auburn hair of a young dwarven scout peeks in between the flaps of canvas, interrupting whatever Josephine was about to say; Cullen swears that he could kiss the man. “Ser Morris requires your presence to sign some urgent requisition reports regarding supplies pending delivery to Halamshiral, also—”

“Whatever it is I’m sure that Lady Montyliet here won’t mind your absence, Commander,” Lavellan pipes up, making Cullen nod thankfully; that’s two men he’s ready to kiss today—or at least thank _very_ enthusiastically.

“Of course not, Commander,” she nods graciously. Had Cullen not known her for three long years he wouldn’t have noticed the nervous clutching of her writing board, how her eyes fleet for a second towards the scout, who clears his throat twice before he finishes delivering his report.

“Also, hm, ser? The Iron Bull has solicited a word with you to discuss the housing and outfitting of the Chargers.”

Cullen can feel his breath quickening, his eyes widening with an almost unnatural speed.

Bull.

Bull who had been out for four months.

Four months of brief reports; news of the Chargers clearing Venatori outposts and blowing red lyrium infested tunnels down. Four months of looking through the holes in the walls of his dilapidated tower towards the gates, as if by mere staring, a merry band of mercenaries led by a gigantic horned figure would emerge—just by the sheer power of wishing hard enough. Cullen suddenly comes to the realisation that he doesn’t have to wish anymore.

From the corner of his eye he can see the sly smirk that crooks up Lavellan’s lips, Josephine too is doing a piss-poor job of hiding hers in between twirls of her quill.

Maker’s breath, those two sly bastards had _known_.

“Of course, I’ll attend to both matters immediately,” he answers swiftly, raising an eyebrow towards them before he turns around and exits.

His heart’s beating so fast that for a second, he can believe it’s echo spreads through his armour—from where it builds at his chest plate, down his vambraces and dying at the silverite capped finish of his greaves. The thrumming rattles his whole body, a nervous pulse that pushes all the uncertainty around the Council and Orlais away, only bringing forth joy—a feeling that less than a year ago he would have considered forfeit, a feeling he now seeks like a man long time underwater seeks air.

A loud “ _Fasta vass_ ,” brings him out of his reverie, as he spins almost one hundred and eighty degrees to see a familiar armoured figure —Kirkwall crest emblazoned on his back—scurrying in between two of the armoury tents.

Krem? A look around tells him that the Chargers have not set up camp here. The loud thunking of a hammer against metal, accompanied by chatter and the neighing of horses intermingling with birdsong are the only things that can be heard under the clear afternoon sky. No rowdy tales told in between roaring chuckles, no horns in sight.

A deep sigh rises from his throat, following a loud dry impact coming from the same spot the Chargers’ Lieutenant had disappeared through. With resolute step, saluting the two soldiers that merely blink at his passing, Cullen makes his way across empty armour racks and unused construction beams.

He _almost_ regrets having decided to take a look, as what he encounters makes his legs lock in place, air leaving his body in a startled shock.

A wide-open maw, full of two rows of razor-sharp teeth, each the size of one of his hands, lays a mere two feet away from him, and if it were to close, Cullen knows he’d be split in half—devoured. The monstrous mouth is attached to a skeletal looking snout, horns twining down its side in curls of ivory yellowed with age.

There’s a fully formed, high dragon skull in his camp, his brain reasons nonplussed, migraine beginning to thud alive under Cullen’s eyelids. This is still not worse than the flying nug plushies thrown with his perfectly calibrated trebuchets—or than the beehives that followed.

“Good evening, Commander,” comes Krem’s sheepish salute somewhere behind the bones, and as Cullen takes a better look, he can see Grim and Rocky tethering matching thick ropes to the place where the skull must have connected to the beast’s backbone.

“Good… evening, Lieutenant. May I ask what you are doing behind my armoury?” Cullen tries to keep his tone as level as possible.

“Oh… hum—” Krem hesitates, standing on his tiptoes for a second as Cullen hears loud rustling on the closest tree, his hand immediately flying to unsheathe his sword.

“Coast is clear,” says a heavily accented female voice from up there, “ _shem_ ’s come on his own.” As Cullen slides his blade back into its scabbard, he can see Skinner’s head popping in between the leaves, hanging upside down from her improvised watchpoint.

“Ok then. Mind if I speak plainly to you, Commander?” Krem asks, far more secure, the slight fidgeting of his body completely gone.

“Sure,” Cullen nods, raising a brow, still dumbfounded, as he sees Dalish with her badly concealed _bow_ trying to steer one of the supply carts towards where the skull lays.

“It’s the Chief’s birthday and we really, _really_ , need to fit this bad boy into Halamshiral,” Krem emphasises by slapping the top of the skull, close to where the horns protrude, a hollow thumping echo emerging from inside.

“You’ve managed to keep this a secret from Bull?” he asks puzzled, earning himself a set of matching grins from the Chargers.

“Yep,” Rocky pops the _p_ in an exaggerated manner, dusting off his pants as he stretches upwards.

“And we are really sorry to tell you, but you are our agent in charge of distracting him,” Krem smiles at him.

“Maker’s breath, this is ridiculous,” Cullen groans, bringing up his hand to the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes before he dares look at Bull’s men once again. How Bull deals with such a level of organised chaos escapes him. “If you intend for me to bribe the Orlesians so that you can fit that monstrosity into the Winter Palace, you have committed a grave mistake,” he warns, trying to adopt the sternest tone he can muster.

“Oh, no need to worry about that, ser,” Scout Harding says, jumping from the front of the cart while saluting, “bribes have been made, the dragon’s in.”

The declaration earns her a brief whoop of approval from the whole team, accompanied by Grim’s polite clap. Cullen truly is having flashbacks from Kirkwall from a very different merry band of misfits; Maker bless Varric not being present to witness this.

“Relax, Commander!” Krem comes a bit closer, his tone almost conciliatory, even if he fails to conceal the mischief shining bright in his eyes, “you just have to look pretty and come by later for an ale! I’m sure the Chief will appreciate the company.” The damn Vint has the gall to _wink_ at him, smiling before he turns back to his men, “Chargers! Let’s get this up in that wagon so we can return to the Chief before he gets tired of bugging Dagna!”

They move around like a small colony of ants, jokes are thrown and small jabs and punches are exchanged, but thanks to one of Dalish’s _arrows_ and some well-applied force using a lever, they manage to haul the skull up under Cullen’s incredulous gaze.

By the time they are done, Scout Harding bids her hurried goodbyes hauling herself up back in the cart and driving away.

Bull’s Chargers disperse in less than it takes a copper to fall, saluting and nodding towards Cullen before he’s left alone. The imprint the behemoth’s skull had left on the ground, the only evidence of the exchange ever having happened.

* * *

The warm orange light of late summer dusk bathes the camp by the time Cullen’s done with Ser Morris’ boxes. The job had been dull and repetitive, going over forms and crates to see if the numbers in matched the numbers out. His body had welcomed the exertion of pushing and moving weight around after almost five days of uninterrupted riding by day and planning by night. His mind had been _quite_ busy trying to figure out what to tell Bull when he finally managed to get out—‘Glad to have you back,’ he had deemed too formal; ‘I missed you,’ far too sentimental.

Now, making his way through the bonfires being lit across the camp, Cullen cannot help but wonder… Did Bull just wish to speak with him? After all, four months was a long time, and no matter where Cullen’s affections lay, he’s not naïve enough not to acknowledge that Bull could have very easily found someone better than him. Less sickly, for starters, probably less stubborn and far more experienced—someone who didn’t carry his past over him like a freshly skinned lion’s pelt, which could be easily torn and bled far too often.

Were it not for that deep sounding two-syllable-word that kept echoing in his mind, that rushed out of his lips on the worst of nights, when withdrawals hit too hard, when he huddled under the sheets seeking for the smell of pungent sweat and leather—those in which he felt like a lovelorn fool.

 _Kadan_.

Were it not for it—Cullen would have given up on himself a longer time ago than he is able to reckon. It’s not only about the sense of belonging it provides him, it’s also about who’s _kadan_ he is, about the person who had granted him the title.

The games of chess, the hours of training and of traversing the Western Approach towards a fortress marked by magic and death. Nights spent together, the softness with which Bull could handle him to afterwards dish out the most exquisite of pains. The mornings together, the spicy stash of Vyrantium tea Bull had started to keep under a floorboard, just because he knew Cullen could savour it more than the regular stuff.

He manages to school his features just as Scout Harding passes by, offering him a conspirational wink.

Bull’s voice can be heard long before Cullen reaches the outcropping of tents that blooms skirting the edge of the camp, the warmth that spreads through his body having nothing to do with the heat from the fires that mingles with the mild evening breeze. He doesn’t repress the crooked smile that begins to tug at the scar on his upper lip.

“So Blackwall’s ready, all casual looking and shit, leaning against a bunch of rocks that had fallen from where that vint had gone CRACK. Sera’s perched on her spot, that little basket full of junk from the armours and such on her arm. She steps up and does a squat as soon as she sees Dagna come out of her tent with all her shit. She’s ready to leap and present her girl with all those goodies and suddenly she goes,” Bull twirls his fingers in a way that has most of the Chargers sitting around the fire snickering.

“After that? Sera _trips_ with Blackwall’s leg, Blackwall doesn’t manage to catch her and she goes _flying_ —”

Bull is sitting in the furthermost corner of the gathered crowd, his tent a tall and imponent shadow behind him. Cullen manages to weave his way as inconspicuously as possible toward’s Bull, who for the moment seems to not have noticed him.

The smell of cooking meat wafts up from a second fire placed a bit further away, Grim and Rocky tending to it without missing out on the tale Bull’s been spinning. Cullen is embarrassed to feel his stomach twist pitifully, probably accompanied by a gurgle. Were it not for all the noise that buzzes around the camp he might have blamed his stomach for how Krem—sitting at Bull’s right, as always—finally spots him, nodding in his direction, the sly smirk on his lips aimed Cullen’s way.

“—and there’s this squelching noise! Koslun’s balls! I swear, Blackwall and I almost shat our pants! And Sera was all covered in that dead guys’ junk, and stomach and shit!”

Cullen’s about to get to Krem’s side when he sees Bull raising his head, and, for a single beat of his heart, everything seems to stop.

Bull looks up, his single eye finds Cullen, whatever he was about to follow up his story with dying in his throat; probably something about Dagna kissing Sera with all the gore and blood in her face, or how Blackwall had afterwards slipped on the blood, and broken his ankle—accounts of the events varied wildly depending on the scout doing the retelling.

In that single beat, everything seems too much. All the people, their stares, their smiles. The heat coming from the fire. Blades clashing in the distance. The acrid smoke that wafts up from the fire. How Bull’s smile quirks up in _that_ way that was almost too welcoming and gentle for Cullen to handle. He feels as if he was suffocating inside his armour. Cooked alive, sweat starting to drip down the back of his neck and completely soaking the back of the thin tunic he’s wearing underneath.

“Bull,” he manages to say, in such a calm way that he almost breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Cullen! ‘s good to see you,” Bull nods his way, the smile getting even more pronounced, his posture relaxed.

To anyone else, this probably looks like a normal interaction; two soldiers greeting after a long day, ready to share a drink and swap stories. To Cullen, it’s the uttering of his name what undoes him. What almost makes him throw caution to the wind and sit next to Bull, ask for a tankard of ale, and simply bask in his glow.

But he cannot do that, not here, not now.

“I was informed you wished to discuss housing for your men at the Winter Palace, I apologise for the delay, Ser Morris—”

“No shit, you are the Commander of the Inquisition. We know your first priority is not deciding which of us get to sleep in a proper bed,” Bull snorts, not unkindly.

“Well, it’s good to know I won’t be needing to have a talk with each of you so that you can inform me of how slighted you feel.”

“You don’t need to worry about that Commander, the most Orlesian among us is Grim, and you know what his answer to everything is,” Krem says from up close, raising his bottle in Cullen’s direction.

“You could always join us, you know? Bet you have forgotten to eat anything since Josephine forced you to do so at sunrise,” Bull offers, nodding towards his side, and it’s so, _so_ , difficult to resist.

“I’m afraid I’d rather we discussed this first,” _if you don’t mind_ he manages not to say, feeling tension slowly recede.

Bull finally pushes himself up with a groan. “My tent good? Or you prefer going to yours?” Bull asks, his finger signalling to the half-open flaps of brown canvas. A burgundy rug that looks much softer than anything Cullen has felt in days peering invitingly, a soft velvety tongue among packed dirt.

“Of course,” he nods back, managing to unlock his legs and to pass in front of the Charger’s Lieutenant with another nod.

“I gotta say Chief, we didn’t luck out by getting here when we did, Skinner says they were just folding all the prim and proper uniforms,” Krem points out just as they seem to be about to leave. A sufficiently innocuous comment Cullen supposes, his eyes darting from Bull back to the Chargers.

“Josie is gonna pull a muscle if she finds out what happened to the tailored coat she sent me,” Bull says, visibly unhurried, “you though, are still gonna get in trouble with all those Orlesians if you show up with that red and gold finery like last time,” he smiles Cullen’s way this time, a hungry, no, predatory smile.

“Andraste have mercy, I don’t even want to think about it,” Cullen groans, idly scratching his neck, furrowing his brow at how he had moved his hand from the pommel of his sword all the way up. He couldn’t keep being so plain about his insecurities; enough people had called him out on those tells already, if he messed it up he—

“Will you two get a room! I’m sorry _shem_ , but if the Chief looks at you once more as if you were a little lonely nuglet I think I won’t be able to stomach anything else to drink.”

Cullen’s going to die. He will combust right there and all that will remain will be his armour, the sheer effort he has to make to look away from Skinner causing him physical strain.

If asked later, he’d be able to say that he saw Stitches punching Skinner in the arm, Bull saying something that thrummed against his back before a big warm hand was placed on the small of his back, guiding him inside the tent. By the time he can hear anything over the roar of pulsating blood in his ears, Bull’s voice is there—Bull is _there_.

“Sorry about that,” Bull says, his fingers doing quick work of the tent’s ties, leaving the enclosure illuminated by a thin amber coloured line of light. It barely lets Cullen see the legs of a cot pushed against a corner and what looks like a brasier, bundled rugs and cushions placed close to it. “Hey, _kadan_?” Bull’s voice makes Cullen turn around, hold his breath. Bull’s walked the two steps that separated them, and is probably assessing him with a worried expression, his right hand having found Cullen’s arm to afterwards move up to his cheek—oh, Maker, the contact; the callouses on it, its warmth. “You OK?”

“Hey,” is the strangled sound that Cullen manages to return as he leans on Bull’s hand. Breathing in, slowly breathing out. Once, then twice, aware of the fact that Bull’s probably still looking at him. Cullen’s hand manages to find Bull’s face too, he regrets having his glove on, regrets the armour and that he probably smells of sweat even if he had cleaned himself before meeting Lavellan and Josephine, just—just this morning.

Bull’s breath is coming from closer now, or maybe his head is slightly tilted down. Ale; strong, hot and pungent, probably _maraas lok_ , something foreign, after all this time it almost smells good; just because it’s Bull.

He dips forward without thinking, one of his hands finds purchase in Bull’s harness so that he cannot pull away. When their lips meet, Cullen barely manages to suppress the little moan that builds in his throat, a soft gust of air gliding out of his lips and against Bull’s.

It’s a gentle kiss. He separates before it can build into more, or tries to, because as soon as he manages to unlatch his hand from the padded leather on Bull’s shoulder, Cullen gets grabbed by the scruff of his mantle and pulled forward. Their lips meet again.

The moan comes out this time. A deep grunt vibrating against his cheek, and Cullen can feel himself smile, his cheeks still warm. Bull’s tongue finds his and now their breaths are mingling, saliva is slowly building in Cullen’s mouth and he has to make a very conscious effort to swallow it down.

They part too fast, just in time, or Cullen believes he would have truly turned into a puddle in his armour. Bull’s arms are around him, the left one steadying him by the hip while the other hasn’t moved from the side of his face, as if Bull was keeping him together just by being present.

“Welcome back,” Cullen manages to rasp out, his heart still racing at a staccato beat not dissimilar to the one it was thumping on his way here. It helps him focus, centres him on the now; each beat like a nail that’s keeping him affixed to this reality—and he’s so grateful he could _weep_.

Bull’s eye and patch glint softly in the dim light, and even under the leather of his gloves, Cullen can feel the creases forming underneath, close to Bull’s scarred cheek; a smile.

“If I had known before, that kissing you into submission would help with those funks you get into, I would have tried it sooner,” Bull laughs, gently, the same way his fingers pause for every inch of Cullen’s cheek they traverse, as if feeling the skin, the stubble, the scar…

“If I had known a kiss was all it took to bring you back, I would have also tried it sooner,” Cullen replies, maybe far more petulant than he intended to—it doesn’t really matter, as it earns him another soft chuckle from Bull.

“C’mere,” Bull says, and Cullen can practically feel himself shiver due to the underlying promise; the edge of command barely peeking under the tease. An order so tantalisingly easy to fulfil—

“We can’t,” he manages to say by the time Bull has glided his hand down to Cullen’s neck, pushing his chin up in a way that almost leaves Cullen breathless, his eyes fixed on Bull’s.

“We can’t? Cullen, we just kissed twice. I don’t think that a third one—”

“Bull, I—we shouldn’t, not now,” Cullen nods with his head towards the canvas. It takes too long for the sounds from the outside to start registering again. By the way Bull’s fingers twitch against his skin, Cullen realises he had not been the only victim to this sudden spell. He can also hear how slowly Bull is breathing, how his inhales and exhales lose speed before their eyes lock again.

It’s a conversation they’ve already had. A conversation that brings back memories of sweltering heat, something herbal mixing with the salt-like-smell that wafts up from the Abyssal Rift. Rough but cool stone against his naked feet as he perches himself on the ledge of the terrace adjacent to his room in Griffon Wing Keep, his legs resting on Bull’s shoulders, Bull’s horns resting against the naked skin of his thigs.

Cullen had sung verses he thought he had long forgotten, on how a Qunari scout had found a boy in the rocky cliffs of a foreign land. A boy who had been a prince, and decided to follow. On how the prince had learnt the scout’s ways, and how the scout had learnt the prince’s. A bond forming in between them that no bard in the entirety of Thedas could ever find how to describe.

Until it all had come tumbling down. A sword into the scout’s chest. The prince, set in avenging him by living on, speaking up about what he had been taught. An arrow to the chest driven by hatred and mistrust had, two years later, silenced him forever.

Bull had been quiet afterwards. Caressed Cullen, from the bridge of his foot, to the edge of his calf, the two intact fingertips on his left hand slowly going over each hair, each scar, each mole. The only light overhead the moon and stars.

“I don’t want them to weaponize you, not again,” Cullen had said, very softly, so softly that he had feared that the wind would eat up his words and blow them away.

 _I don’t want them to weaponize us_ he had meant to say, but was unable to.

“Big words, coming from a soldier,” Bull had laughed. It had been brittle, sad almost.

Cullen had untangled his legs, steadying himself on the parapet before jumping down, sitting beside Bull with a bitter laugh to match, the green woollen blanket he had been tightly holding to preserve his modesty pooling around his body.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen had said, and both had known he meant it, “you deserve—Maker, it was not my place to say—”

“Nah, you did well. It’s good, you know, knowing that someone else is still there to—” Bull had trailed off.

 _To kill you, if you lose your mind_ Cullen knew Bull was going to say, his head propelled against the stone wall so that he could properly look Cullen in the eye.

It’s the first time he thinks he had seen fear in Bull’s eye since the whole Storm Coast incident. So he had crawled into Bull’s lap—careful of his leg, tentative as to not press his hands against the bruises that were already blooming on Bull’s torso from what they had been doing less than an hour ago. He had kissed Bull’s forehead, afterwards gently cradling his face to deposit twin kisses over his eyelids; one sealed shut forever, the other, just an instant, just for Cullen.

An axe shatters what Cullen’s presumes is another cask of ale—wood breaking, followed by the sloshing of liquid and the whoops of the people around the campfire. Bull’s hand is still cradling his cheek, his expression soft with understanding.

“I promise I’m not angry—most of the Inner Circle knows, plus probably some of the scouts,” Cullen says, pushing a bit away to grant himself some space, “your men are great, I know they won’t—you know,” he gestures with his hands.

Bull snorts, “Alert the whole Orlesian court that you’re sleeping with an ex- _Ben-hassrath_? Nah, I don’t think they will.”

“Say it a bit louder and Josephine will give them each a basket of pastries for the inconveniences.”

“See? This is the kind of shit I missed while being out,” Bull erupts into a peal of laughter, and Cullen feels like a fool for the thousandth time that afternoon for actually feeling his exhaustion lifting just by such a small gesture. “’S a damn shame we can’t convince Sera that you’ve never had a stick up your ass, ‘cause like, the things you’ve had up there are—”

“Maker, don’t,” he groans, hearing Bull laugh again, “but, hm, forgetting all that second bit you just said, I missed you too. It’s really good—to have you back.”

Bull has started moving by the time he musters the courage to talk. For a brief second, as the tinderbox clicks and the flame of a candle flickers into life, Cullen thinks he may have to repeat it, or simply let the words die until he gets presented with a similar chance in the future. But Bull’s still smiling, that same open smile, and he sits on the cot on the far off corner—Cullen can see it now, piled up with lush looking covers and soft blankets—patting the spot on his side on a silent invitation for Cullen to sit down.

He does; barely gets to suppress a sigh when he sinks a bit into it, his back still ramrod straight, his arms shagging a little.

“How have you been?” Bull asks, taking Cullen’s right hand in his, divesting him of his glove. Cullen knows this won’t turn sexual, he knows Bull’s look and how he has always respected those boundaries, but still, apprehension must show in his face because Bull halts, “you say _katoh_ , this stops. We get out or I accompany you to your tent, same as always, clear?” he asks.

Cullen nods, forcing himself not to search with his now bare and most certainly sweaty, hand for Bull’s. “Yes, _katoh_ , you can continue,” he manages to articulate.

Bull’s satisfaction and answering nod don’t go unnoticed before he’s deftly ridding Cullen of his left glove, leaving both neatly placed on the bedding. Bull’s hands linger for a second over the tip of Cullen’s fingers, over every single articulation, until he starts slowly testing each one of them, as if wanting to ensure that none of the swelling is too bad yet, test that Cullen can still hold a quill—a blade. What at first Cullen thinks is a hum of assent at him turns out into a slow, rolling melody, one that Bull has sung many times before, words in _qunlat_ , which makes them difficult for Cullen to remember. Maybe one of the many cantos in the Tome of Koslun. As Bull had once called them, _Hope with rhythm_.

Cullen clears his throat before he manages to answer, eyes still fixed on Bull’s ministrations, “All is well, the Inquisition has secured the Venatori outposts located in the mountain range close to Cumberland. Josephine has signed treaties with some of the nobles in Val Chevin, so even if things go awry in the Exalted Council she will ensured that—”

A rumbling snortish laugh coming from Bull stops Cullen dead in his tracks, a fresh wave of heat rising up his cheeks, “Cullen, I asked how _you_ have been,” Bull squeezes his hand as the phrase leaves his lips, making Cullen bow his head, trying to hide his face in some crevice of his armour.

The urge to apologise climbs fast up his throat, “Maker, I am so sorry I—I have been inside that tent along with Lavellan all day, I shouldn’t be so lacking of focus.”

“Hey, there’s no need for any of that crap, I know you’re tired and I know you’ve been working yourself to dead since dawn,” Bull shakes his head, a slight frown showing on his face before it slowly relaxes back into a smile, “you can stumble and fall as much as you want here, I’ll be there to catch you.”

Bull presents Cullen his arms, palms up, as if mimicking one of those trust falls they had made them practice in the Abbey during training so many years ago; his own weakness at the acute pang of sadness the memory brings makes him grimace.

Cullen breathes in, then out.

Bull’s tent and presence are beginning to make the bone-deep weariness that has settled over his bones these past five days on horseback resurface. For a moment he wishes they could stay here forever—or at least for the following week, Andraste damn the Council and all the attending Orlesians. Truth be told, he doesn’t know if he’s more exacerbated by the mere thought of Orlesian nobles or by his own thoughts. He shouldn’t be wary of being tired or vulnerable around Bull; the man has seen him at his worst, and he’s still here! Being open with him cannot hurt. It never has.

“Five episodes on the past four months,” Cullen says, almost immediately regrets how hicuppy it sounds. “Only two of them were bad enough to call a healer, Cassandra and Madame de Fer say—they say that in a year or so, I might experience only one bad day every month, maybe even less,” he’s aware that his tone has been lowering for each and every word he’s uttered, as if he were disclosing some kind of nasty secret about Lavellan or an ally instead of communicating to his lover that his life expectancy may have lengthened. It doesn’t help that it makes him feel unclean, tainted, knowing that so many men have died prior to him to this same ailment; this same Blue that gnaws at his bones and drums in his head—but somehow he has been given the chance to fool it, for a while longer.

“That’s so good, _kadan_ ,” Bull coos, draping his arm over Cullen’s shoulder, pulling him close, shoulder bumping against shoulder, Bull’s breath against his ear, “I’m not gonna lie, I _really_ wanna cuddle you to death, ‘cause I’m sure you’re wracking your pretty head with ways of making it sound like bad news and other stuff with which to martyrize yourself, but with all that silverite on you, plus the pointy bits,” he says, left thumb trailing over the scabbard, “I think that’s a nope for now.”

Before he can protest and give Bull a piece of his mind, he hears another loud gurgle coming from his stomach. By the time the day’s over Cullen thinks he’s going to turn a permanent shade of cherry red.

“Look, we are going to go out there, grab some grub—”

“Maybe—maybe afterwards we can go… talk strategy in my tent?” Cullen manages to add before Bull can derail the conversation into what he thinks that would make Cullen comfortable.

The smile he is rewarded with is very worth the interruption. “Shit, yeah, talk _strategy_ ,” Bull adds a waggle to his eyebrows that if asked, Cullen would say, perfectly justifies the punch he gives him on his uncovered pec.

“Maker, you’re disgusting!”

“And yet here we are,” Bull chuckles, his waggling uninterrupted, which doesn’t fail to make Cullen smirk.

“Not one of your most endearing qualities, plus, we aren’t doing anything until we get a proper bed. Maker knows how cranky you get whenever we—we have sex in something unsteady” Cullen snorts, ignoring Bull’s groaned _Kadaaan_ of protest. Cullen doesn’t ignore the huff that slips from Bull’s lips when he stands up though. “How’s your leg doing?” Eyes fixed in how candlelight reflects on Bull’s ankle brace.

“Same as always,” Bull shrugs, “hasn’t given me grief in a while, probably thanks to the heat, Orlais will probably fuck it up again, with all the damp and drafts in those castles.”

“That’s good—I’m glad.” He kisses Bull on the forehead before he manages to somehow convince himself that it’s stupid.

Bull’s answering chuckle assures him that it is in fact, quite the opposite, the hand that tugs at Cullen’s belt a reassurance.

* * *

They do end up going back to Cullen’s tent to talk strategy after dinner. They chat while playing chess, two games that turn into three after one wins each, the call for guard-rotation the only sound outside rising over the crackling of the brasier stationed outside.

When Cullen fails to comment on a pun Bull makes on Fereldan tactics, followed by a badly concealed yawn, he is gently guided towards his cot, weakly protesting and whining every few steps. He quiets down when Bull starts working on taking Cullen’s armour off, making quick work of the buckles and straps that keep it together until Cullen is left standing in his undershirt and smalls.

Frustration rises, accompanying a click of Cullen’s tongue when he tries to pull Bull forward and he is firmly pushed back.

“You said that no sex, not today,” Bull reminds him with a smile, shoving him lightly so that the back of Cullen’s legs hits the bed, making him fall onto it.

“I don’t—I don’t wanna _fuck_ ,” Cullen mutters—he swears on Andraste that he is not pouting, “but I’d like you to stay. Please.”

“ _Kadan_ ,” Bull sighs. Cullen can feel that he is also tired, Bull’s posture far too close to a slouch.

“Just ‘til dawn,” he insists, patting a spot close to him, just as Bull had a couple of hours prior, offering Bull his best smile.

Silence for a beat. Then two. Only those who prowl the night can be heard outside, crickets with their non-stop chanting and owls calling their mates.

At last, another of Bull’s sighs, “You’re sometimes worse than an _imekari_ long past his training days.”

“Just because you say it in _qunlat_ doesn’t mean I don’t remember you’re calling me childish,” Cullen grins, ecstatic, incapable of avoiding the teasing. He’ll sleep with Bull tonight. A warm body will be there tonight. Bull will be there tonight.

“Brat,” Bull tosses back with a matching smirk, fondness unmistakeable on his features.

Bull’s clothes and belongings are swiftly piled close to the bed, their four hands working in tandem, like so many times before—fingers brushing as they unhook straps, massage sweaty skin and tug at stuck cloth.

It takes a bit longer for them to find a comfortable position, the cot much smaller than Bull’s. After some shifting and rearranging Cullen is fitted in between the edge that brushes the canvas of the tent and Bull’s torso, half lying on him, his face neatly tucked close to his neck. He takes a deep breath as soon as he finds the spot; sweat, leather, weapon polish and smoke, layers of smells he associates with home, with safety.

He falls asleep reciting Trials.

_You have walked beside me  
Down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh.  
You have stood with me when all others  
Have forsaken me._

And awakens not many hours later—three according to the candle Bull’s left blessedly lit, still laying on the table with their half-finished chess game. He feels moisture over Bull’s skin, over the spot his face had been lying on while he slept, spit? Tears? Maybe both.

Bull’s breathing is slow under him, a gentle rise and fall that Cullen tries to imitate. He’s safe, this is not Kinloch, not Kirkwall.

“Nightmare?” Bull rumbles, his voice vibrating against Cullen’s cheek, a deep tremor he can feel moving under grey skin, thick muscle and bones.

Cullen nods, slowly, blinks a couple of times before he notices that there’s a soft pressure on his scalp. Bull is combing his curls, slowly, tugging to pull them out of the tight clumps they end up in due to sweat and pomade.

Cullen keeps breathing, keeps securely trying to come back, from where? He cannot remember. His dreams had been dark tonight, vague. He remembers running, jumping off a cliff that oversaw an almost black mercurial sea—anything else lost to the waves.

How long they stay like that Cullen doesn’t know.

His breathing gentles down at some point, his hands begin to move around Bull’s torso, tracing scars with the tip of his fingers which have been there for longer than Bull can remember. There are two new ones up where Cullen can see. One, on his left arm, almost merging with the ink that Cullen had once called mockingly a peacock, which Bull had made him swiftly regret; claws digging into Cullen’s ass, smile predatory. It’s small, jagged, still a bit pink, as if an arrow, or a hook-like blade had entered the flesh and tore through. Bull hisses under his breath when Cullen’s finger digs a bit too deeply into the skin.

“Sorry,” he apologises as fast as the words come, rough and scratchy against his throat.

“‘s fine,” Bull shifts, his fingers still working on Cullen’s hair, his other hand helping prop Cullen a bit higher so that Bull can look him in the eyes, smiling.

Cullen smiles back, curling his fingers lightly at the urge to trace Bull’s chin, his beard, his smile, and follow the path up his scar, up his horns… “Poison arrow?” he asks instead.

“Nah, fucking lot worse,” Bull rumbles, sharp teeth flashing for a second under the candlelight, as his purplish tongue peeks out for a second to wet his lips, “lurker pack caught us unaware, up in the Wastes, almost chewed a poor guys’ arm off its socket before we could notice,” he grimaces, ‘winking’ down at Cullen as soon as he notices the slight distress that must have shown across his face. “Worst part was the poison, that’s why it hasn’t healed yet. The other guy is now working at Skyhold, almost lost him to gangrene. But hey! You should have seen the beasts’ mug when Varric got him in that bubbly thingy they got up their heads,” Bull grins, tapping at Cullen’s forehead for emphasis.

“Well, that’s a relief, knowing we almost lost you to a much smaller lizard than usual,” Cullen says, relaxing slightly when Bull’s hand crawls back up his temple to the back of his neck, his body almost lying completely over Bull’s.

“You truly are like a big cat, aren’t you?” Bull rumbles softly after a beat of silence, smile apparent on his tone.

Cullen shrugs, satisfaction making the distress he was feeling evaporate, until his eyes come across the second scar, over Bull’s sternum. The worst of it must have been hidden by his harness, more than evident under the little light the candle offers. It looks worse, an unnatural red closer to the edges, as if blood hadn’t clotted well, or as if elfroot hadn’t been applied in time. Probably a sword, or a dagger—something sharp and precise, an acute weapon accompanying a precise blow. Cullen brushes his lips against one edge, tenderly, feeling a minute shift in Bull before he peppers it with kisses—one, two, three and four, until he reaches its end, head rising to catch Bull unaware, staring, as if a misplaced exhalation could blow Cullen away like autumn leaves in the wind.

“Red templar claymore,” Bull says. “North of South Reach, bunch of tough fuckers, almost out of their stuff; you know how they get when they are desperate.”

“Should have sent a letter to my sister with you if you were going to South Reach, would have been faster than whatever has been going on with the couriers for the past few weeks,” Cullen says, aware that a slight pang of regret tints his words.

“Really? You would have let me deliver something to Mia?” Bull asks, genuinely curious.

“Of course, she knows that the Chargers’ help has been invaluable in our fight against Corypheus.” Maybe she also knows that the Iron Bull is gentle and loyal, and that he makes some of the best hot cocoa Cullen’s ever been able to taste. But he doesn’t need to know he’s told Mia that—and maybe some more.

“You told your sister about _me_?” Bull insists, beaming down at Cullen with a smile that inevitably makes him blush. “Aw, _kadan_ , that’s so darn _sweet_!” Bull adds with a rumbling laugh, and even if the tone is teasing, Cullen can recognise something grateful in his face, along an almost imperceptible purple tint to his cheeks.

“If you say so…” Cullen trails off, trying to hide back his face against Bull’s body, getting stopped by one of Bull’s hands, which cups his face gently before one of his rough finger-tips is tracing Cullen’s lips.

A hint of want shines in Bull’s eye before Cullen sees him reigning it in. Bull’s slight hardness a steady pressure beneath him. It is difficult to articulate how comfortable he feels knowing that Bull won’t act upon it, not without checking, not if Cullen doesn’t say something first. It feels invaluable to him, especially knowing where they’ll be riding in a few meagre hours.

He blinks, trying to make the fuzzy feeling settle or go away altogether, his brain making a piece of information learnt earlier in the day resurface.

“Bull,” Cullen starts speaking tentatively, “I talked to Krem earlier and he told me that your birthday is very near—”

“Shit! Should I be scared of their gift this time too? ‘cause let me tell you, not so long ago Rocky got his hands on some _gaatlok_ , mixed it with some shit and—”

“Will you let me finish?” He huffs with a groan that makes Bull chuckle, “I just thought that Qunari did not celebrate birthdays, that’s all. That’s what they told me in Kirkwall at least.”

Bull looks pensive for a few seconds, propping himself up on his elbows before he speaks, “Qunari _don’t_ celebrate birthdays; you didn’t get that one wrong. _Tamassrans_ do keep track of when we are born though, you wanna know when your _imekari_ were born, their parents, and all that shit before you decide where to send them off or like, who to mate them with. I know I was born late in summer, around Kingsway—well, more than know it’s bits and pieces I remember from before…” Bull’s voice dies down after that, eye fixed somewhere in the back of Cullen’s neck.

Cullen doesn’t have to look to know that there’s nothing there, to know that Bull doesn’t even want to think about the re-educators, not now. “I understand, it is not necessary for you to explain if—”

“Nah, I’m good. Just—we choose our birthdays, you see,” Bull adds, thoughtful. “We choose a date close to ours, the _tamassrans_ don’t like it, but shit, they don’t like how we bond among each other and I can tell you stories,” a dark chuckle raises along with his last words, “I hung out with a _sten_ who had a wonderful grip when I was in my twenties, if you know what I mean—” Cullen all but shoves his pillow into Bull’s face, yelping as Bull grabs him by his hips and squeezes him up so that he can be truly on top of him. “Anyways, I think I’m losing track of what I was saying—”

“So rare…” A pinch to his buttocks makes Cullen swat Bull back on his chest.

“Lippy,” Bull chuckles, his hands remaining around Cullen’s mid-section, superficially massaging his hips. “Where was I? So, yes, we don’t have birthdays, but we set an especial occasion that’s close to them to celebrate; your first kiss, your first wank, your first Vint—dealer’s pick.”

“What did you choose?” Cullen asks, eager, most definitely curious, satisfied when Bull smiles, having been waiting for his reaction.

“The first time? I cannot remember,” Bull shrugs nonchalantly. “Probably the first book I finished reading in a foreign language, some shit like that—the re-educators took it away, so afterwards I spent some years juggling with dates that would fit. Celebrated it in late August for a few years, because you know, All Soul’s Day and _dragons._ ” The mention makes Cullen smile in a way that feels secretive but that he hopes Bull interprets as fond. “Two years ago I realized that—shit! I had to go big or go home, in all senses, so—tomorrow it is!”

Cullen doesn’t need to rake his brain to know what happened two years ago the day after today. The alliance. The dreadnaught. _Tal-va-fucking-shoth,_ still echoes somewhere in the back of his head; the most misery he’s ever heard come out of Bull’s mouth—ever. He crawls his way upwards, cradling Bull’s face in between his hands, eyes dead set on Bull’s unbelieving stare.

“That is incredibly brave, _Bull._ ” He tries to emphasise his name. This is who you are now, this is who you are to me.

“Or incredibly stupid.”

“You tend to be both,” Cullen smirks, lowering his head to softly kiss Bull’s lips. “And I love you for it.”

Bull remains silent, swallowing loudly before he buts his head against Cullen’s, kissing the tip of his nose, “It’s still not my _real_ birthday,” he insists, obstinately.

“You know, Andraste was not _really_ born in winter,” Cullen declares, employing the tone that so many times during his training had earned him a severe reprimand. Bull stares at him quizzically, and before he can utter a single word Cullen raises one of his fingers to Bull’s lips, “Let me explain. For many years, Chantry scholars believed that Our Lady was born in what today we consider First Day, and of course that our calendars must have been built around the notion of Ages starting at the same time Andraste came to be. Nevertheless, in 6:95 steel, Chantry scholar Leonora of Perendale concluded that the Maker’s Bride had to be born in spring, around Cloudreach, due to the heavy rains tinted ‘a black as dark as the Void’ that are described in a passage of the Chant when it talks about Andraste’s first year marked without her sister Halliserre, who coincidentally, died around Andraste’s birthday.”

Cullen’s heavy breathing is the only thing that can be heard in the tent, he worries of having lulled Bull into a sleep with his rant, raises his head to properly look at him. What he gets is a loud snort, followed by barely contained laughter, which turns explosive in a matter of seconds.

“ _Kadan_! I’m sorry to tell you this, but you are a fucking nerd,” Bull says when he manages to reign his breathing back to normal.

Cullen thinks he’s about to catch fire, no, the beddings will catch fire at the rate that the blush from his cheeks is spreading across his chest. Cullen manages to grumble, “You are one to speak _Ashkaari_.”

“Koslun’s balls! You compared me to a fucking prophet. Damn, _kadan_ , too much sinning for you this year, gonna have to find a way to punish you for that,” he grins, making Cullen’s face _somehow_ burn even hotter.

“Maker’s balls, shut up! I was just trying—to prove a point,” Cullen says, rolling down from Bull and into his corner, tugging as much blanket as he can towards him.

He feels the mattress shifting before Bull’s breath rustles the hairs at the back of his neck, making them stand on end, “Thanks, for proving your point.” He accentuates his words with a kiss to Cullen’s neck, followed by a light bite that makes Cullen sigh.

They stay curled up like that, in silence, Bull kissing Cullen’s back and neck as he tentatively makes him roll closer to him, to prevent the fall or to keep him next to him, Cullen doesn’t know. Cullen ends up pressed against Bull’s chest, his left arm holding him tightly.

After a while, an itch begins to crawl back under Cullen’s skin, and hearing that Bull is still not asleep, Cullen clears his throat, “I—I feel uneasy about the Exalted Council,” he confesses, parting his face from Bull’s skin in the hopes of being heard, “I don’t have many good memories from our last time there, even if Josephine is trying to make it better, Andraste bless her.”

A hum of acknowledgment vibrates against Cullen’s stomach, still huddled against Bull. “I can always bust a few kneecaps, see how they like that.”

“Maker, don’t! I think that even Divine Victoria would struggle trying to excuse _that_ ,” Cullen laughs.

“If you keep calling her _that_ , she’s gonna get your kneecaps busted,” Bull chides.

A soft tingling sensation comes from behind Cullen’s legs and turns unbearable very soon, making him curl on himself, a peal of laughter coming out in short gasps from his lips. Too much! It tickles too much! “Andraste’s balls, Bull! Stop, we’ll wake—we’ll wake someone up,” he tries to say in between muffled gasps against the bedding, tears prickling against his eyes as he looks at Bull, who has the widest shit-eating grin Cullen’s seen him with since the last time they had sex. It truly is a sight to behold.

“I won’t tell Sera that you’re ticklish, I promise,” Bull _winks_ , which does nothing but make Cullen huff with annoyance—to Bull’s utter enjoyment.

His hand methodically follows the sinews and bones on Cullen’s leg, lightly scratching on spots Bull knows will make Cullen kick him or giggle, until it comes to rest close to his stomach, slowly trailing up and down the coarse hair there. Up, then down—maybe a bit more up, close to Cullen’s ribs, then back down. Monotonous, repetitive—sleep-inducing.

“Everyone’s saying the Inquisition is going to get disbanded,” Cullen whispers before exhaustion can win him over again, a nervous hush that surprises even him when he realises he’s said it out loud.

“Heard that one before,” Bull’s voice comes from up close, his arm curling around Cullen’s hip to pull him a bit closer, tighter against his body. “What do you think the Boss will do?”

“Me?” Cullen asks, a bit baffled, “I—I really don’t know.” An owl, or maybe a raven, passes over the tent, the flap of its wings making the canvas above ripple in amber coloured waves over them, like the uncertainty in Cullen’s gut every time this topic is broached.

“Whatever happens, I really hope they let you retire,” Bull says over him, Cullen can feel him inhale over his hair, as if trying to take him in, “Wanna see you this well-fed all the time, _kadan_ ,” he says, pinching the slight raise to Cullen’s hip that has only grown after so many months of occasional training.

“You just want to stop feeling guilty about yours,” Cullen nudges back, smiling faintly at the kiss Bull leaves at the crown of his head. “I’m still thinking about that place—for retired Templars, so at least I can keep on helping afterwards. Until the end.” _Until my end_ he doesn’t say.

Bull hums against his scalp, placing another kiss on the back of his neck. “Good. ’s good you hold onto purpose,” Bull says, a bit more sleepily, “ _If you love purpose, fall into the tide. Let it carry you,”_ he recites in a low exhalation.

The owl takes off, with a loud hoot, Cullen falls asleep, his lips pressed against Bull’s skin.

He is gone when Cullen awakes with the crack of dawn.


	2. A Faint and Flickering Light

The march to Halamshiral is as uneventful as they come.

Cullen rides almost at the front, behind Mahanon and Josephine. They seem to be exchanging small talk; maybe training for the Inquisitor to be able to talk to human nobles without wanting to disappear for a week—as he had done after the ball at the Winter Palace—, maybe just enjoying the ins and outs of Thedosian politics, which he seems to have lately developed quite a keen interest on.

They traverse golden oceans of wheat, a sheet of plots filled with sunflowers and heather that go on for miles—yellow and lavender mingling and making it look like one of the embroidery works his mother used to hang over the mantelpiece. Cullen wonders how many of them grow over the bones of the elves that fought here centuries ago.

Small farmhouses and mills dot the landscape cresting over a steep hill, beneath which the golden and white spires of the Winter Palace rise, a majestic fairy-tale-like building that seems even more imposing during the day. The resplendent gates surrounding the castle and its adjoining town, a burnished iron Orlesian mask—yes, beneath these gates await unconceivable wonders, but also ambition and envy, hidden like the worst of moulds, awaiting to fester.

Cullen wants to vomit.

It doesn’t get better when they finally have to parade up to the main staircase, all those eyes fixed upon them, in each of their triumphs and missteps; waiting for the Inquisition to fall. Cullen’s fingers twiddle briefly with Moira’s mane, absentmindedly patting her neck until he is forced to dismount and salute the dignitaries who wait impatiently for them at the entrance.

He only gets propositioned thrice—that he’s noticed—before he manages to barricade himself inside the room they show him into. The Inquisitor is just two hallways to the left, Ser Blackwall—as the servant had called him—on the room opposite to his; at least the nights will be silent.

The room has been recently aired, and it’s bigger and more opulently decorated than any of the ones he’s had to stay at during other diplomatic missions; or whatever Josephine wants to call those parties they invite him over to, just to gush about how utterly _marvellous_ he’d look side by side with their daughter—by their son when the hosts are not Orlesian.

Golden framed matching settees sit close to the entrance, upholstered in rich royal blue velvet, a crystal table with ivory legs sitting in between them, a golden stoppered decanter filled with what looks like brandy—or maybe Antivan sherry—on top. Thoughts of what the purpose of the display is make his stomach churn, so he turns towards the great double windows on the left of the disproportionately big canopied bed that lays in between them. A room fit more for a King than for a military man. The thought of each of them on the Inner Circle sharing similar rooms makes him dizzy. He’s always had an acceptable spatial memory, but trying to grasp the sheer size of this castle is madness.

Cullen manages to control the urge to quickly purge the room of any potentially magical devices that might be near; the call for Blue cannot find him here, not in enemy territory. He fiddles with the worn silver coin in his right pocket as he opens the doors out to the balcony, taking a peek down the veranda. The castle walls stand mere meters below where the balcony ends, further away, the yellow and purple fields merge with the clear blue sky in the horizon—Cullen cannot stop thinking about the ivory that feeds their roots.

He needs to get out.

The first day will be devoted to introductions and polite greetings, surely no one would notice anything amiss if the Commander of the Inquisition disappeared until lunch.

No one stops him as he exits—servants carrying linens and other essentials pass him in a rush, as he makes his way down one of the many service stairways and all but strolls out of the gardens into the adjoining city. The small clump of market-stalls that merchants have set up in hopes of getting a few copper pieces out of foreign envoys bustling with life and music, Maryden’s voice coming vividly from some adjoining street.

Cullen’s hands itch, he takes short time in tucking the supple leather gloves into his belt and brushing the cold sweat gathering in his palms against his breeches, his gaze roving the street as his mind tries to bring back images of a floorplan he has meticulously memorised. Too many eyes are looking, he hears giggling—has he misstepped? Is his tunic showing from under his jacket? He remembers matching gazebos standing a bit further off, perhaps if he manages to—

“Damn mutt!”

A bellow, followed by a pitiful whine, stops him in his tracks, eyes focusing in one of the merchants, who has kicked what looks like a young mabari into the middle of the road. As Cullen’s feet bring him closer, he can see that the coat of the dog is dusty, patches of matted dirt and what could be blood clumping all over his body.

“It keeps coming back! I’m going to call the guards, see if they can kick this beast out,” his accent is thick, probably from the Orlesian border with Nevarra, the man he’s been talking to barely repressing a yawn under his hand, both of their postures straightening in a jerk at Cullen’s approach.

“That will not be necessary,” Cullen says, his tone resembling the one he uses with badly behaved recruits.

The merchant who had kicked the mabari speaks with contempt, “Oh, a Fereldan.”

Cullen pays no attention to his tone, fishing his purse from one of the many pouches of his belt and dropping two silver bits on top of the table, grabbing before the merchant can stop him, two of the bone-shaped pastries the dog had been sniffing at.

“C’mon boy,” he calls with a whistle, satisfied to see the animal coming a bit closer, eyeing curiously one of the treats that Cullen lowers in his direction.

He waits in a crouch, still close to the stand, the mabari coming closer and closer until it lowers hits head to sniff it again, teeth closing around the cookie before he gobbles it up ravenously.

“Good boy!” Cullen smiles, again, the merchant eyeing him with distaste from just a few feet away. “C’mon,” he stands up, whistling before he sets out in a much more languorous pace towards the spot he had been thinking about, the dog trotting happily away from the crowded street.

Cullen takes the stairs down two at a time, taking a deep breath of the mild late summer air, it feels less stuffy down here, less artificial. A pleased sigh of relief escapes him as he sits on one of the polished marble benches, the mabari trotting after him before he butts his muzzle against Cullen’s knee, whining.

“You want another one?” he asks, waving the treat at the mabari’s round furry face, who answers with an excited yip.

The cookie placed in the palm of his hand vanishes in a blur, and, as the furry fiend is still munching happily, Cullen brushes his hands over its— _his_ —hair, trying to ascertain that none of the blood comes from an open gash, or that he has a flea too many. The mabari eyes him happily, barking contentedly when Cullen scratches his tail, less stubby than he expected.

“Orlesian noble took you in a flight of fancy, eh?” Cullen earns himself another bark, his mouth searching for Cullen’s hand, licking his fingers in a frenzy. “Poor thing…”

“You were always compassionate with those who had it worse than you.” Cullen doesn’t have to turn around to see that Cassandra is smiling.

“And you were always a tad too persistent in trying to see the good in me,” he says, thankful that the mabari seems content to simply lay his head on Cullen’s hands as he scratches his chin.

“Maybe if you stopped putting yourself down _all the time_ ,” she tuts, a crooked smile twisting up her lips as she angles her posture to lean on the railing across from Cullen.

Cassandra’s wearing a beautiful crimson coat, which swisses whenever she moves, the mantle of the Seekers ever-present on her breastplate. A symbol of what used to be, ringing as hollow as the Order’s crest still branded into Cullen’s own armour; what a pair they make.

“I take it your trip to Antiva city was fruitful?”

“You know it was, will you cut out the formalities? Maker, the only person that hasn’t spoken to me as if I was some kind of sacred figurehead has been _Varric_ , and if I have to cross half a word with that dwarf for what remains of the day—”

“Varric’s here?”

“Of course he is. The Viscount of Kirkwall wouldn’t dream to miss, and I quote, the political event of the year.”

Cassandra’s imitation of Varric’s accent is a wretched thing, and it makes Cullen snort, barely containing his laughter, “Of course he wouldn’t.”

They talk for a while, the sun keeping vigil over them as they exchange gossip and comments on what’s been going on in the world since the last time they saw each other; stories of Seeker’s who still claim to belong to a dissolute order, of mages trying to rebuild their lives outside of the Circle, and of villages where rifts had opened and now only a shadow of what they were remains.

Cullen’s been talking for a while about some of the new recruits, his hands drifting from time to time to pat the mabari’s side when he notices that Cassandra hadn’t intervened for a tad too long. She’s staring at him, a soft caring smile on her lips that makes him stutter into a halt.

“Did I say—did I misstep?”

“No, no, Maker no!” she emphasises, waving her hands before she hides a soft giggle behind her hand. “It’s just that you look so much happier! So much more—alive!” Cassandra gestures, her hand cupping his cheek up, gently.

“Do—do I?” He truly hopes his voice doesn’t squeak.

“Yes! You look less pale, and you actually smile when you speak,” she beams.

“I—well, withdrawals have been kind to me lately, and since Corypheus stopped being an issue I’ve been—I’ve been trying to lead a better life than I did,” Cullen explains, averting his gaze.

“I surmise—you and the Iron Bull have been… doing well too?” Her tone is tentative, low, aware of Cullen’s usual uncomfortable disposition towards any kind of mention of—whatever Bull and him are doing. But this is Cassandra. Cassandra who believed in him from day one, even when he was still trying to pick up the pieces of what was left of himself after Kirkwall, even after the Withdrawals and telling her about Bull—she has always been a firm steady presence by his side. This is something he _owes_ her.

Cullen nods, steadying his breath before he dares speak, “He’s been one of the best things to come out of the Inquisition for me. I thank you, and the Maker every day for it.”

Cassandra smiles again, her hand dropping to squeeze Cullen’s shoulder tightly, “I am glad, my friend. You both deserve all the happiness you can get after what you’ve been through.”  
And not for the first time, Cullen truly thinks he can believe her.

* * *

“Ok, you ridiculous man, out with it, all of it,” Dorian groans exasperated, one of his pawns tipping down Cullen’s rook, which trails a rolling path down the board to the edge of the table.

“I wasn’t—”

“Maker, Commander, if you were any more obvious about holding back things you want to talk about, you would just light up the sign you already wear in your face!” Cullen pretends he doesn’t see how, with a fluid motion, one of Dorian’s Knights disappears up his sleeve and reappears a few squares downwards.

“I wasn’t being that obvious,” Cullen replies, feeling his blush abate after a smirk curls up his lips when his Mage captures one of Dorian’s.

“Cheeky, but not an answer. Come on, spit it out.”

“I—Lavellan told me about your seat in the Magisterium,” Cullen mutters, looking down at the board, pretending he hasn’t noticed Dorian’s more gaunt complexion, the badly concealed shadows under his eyes, how his clothes are not as perfectly poised as the Dorian Cullen met at Skyhold would have accepted.

“You keep calling him that, one of these days he’s going to send a little bolt of lightning to change your ways. He keeps complaining about how it’s always Lavellan or Inquisitor—he truly wants you to call him Mahanon, really, you are on first-name basis with him,” Dorian waves his hand dismissively before they stray away down to the couch. “As for the rest—well, news that my father has passed away shouldn’t be waved around lightly. It’s still partially a secret, even if by supper I expect half of Thedas to already know about his assassination.”

“Maker,” Cullen raises his head up from the board, not caring about Dorian cheating, about Orlesian’s or anyone else passing through the gardens. “I would like to say that I’m sorry, but knowing how he was to you—what he did… Honestly, I’d prefer to know how you feel about it before I misstep and lose one of my few friends,” he laughs self-deprecatingly.

When Dorian looks up, he’s is a bit slack-jawed, his eyes glassy, “You are too honest, Cullen, with me and everyone here. No wonder Orlesian’s despise you once they see beneath your candid farm-boy façade.” Dorian’s smile is brittle, and seems to stop considering the board to meet Cullen’s eyes. “Thank you, my friend. I must say you are one of the first to actually ask me about how I—feel.”

“I think we’ll all miss you—I will, for sure. Winning against an expert cheat had never been so satisfying before,” Cullen smirks, aiming to bring the conversation to a more familiar territory, to what they are both used to. To think that, out of all the people to become close to him from the Inner Circle, one of the ones who would stick around would be Dorian, would have driven the Cullen who started commanding an army from Haven into a state of hysteria. To the Cullen who commands an army from Skyhold, it brings a sense of peace—of atonement.

“Now, now, none of that sass with me. I know you will reject my farewell party invitation—very informal, Varric organised it and drew the bunch of usual people in, you wouldn’t like it. But I hope you don’t reject this.” One of Dorian’s hands fleets into his ridiculous coat, a small pendant hanging from it when he draws it out, “Now, Lavellan already has one, of course, and I haven’t bothered with Varric and Madame de Fer because I’ll probably be seeing them soon, with all this—bureaucratic hustle and bustle. I have yet to figure out how to tell Sera but… well, keep it.”

Dorian’s hand is soft and warm against his, a striking contrast against the crystal hanging from the thin silvery chain, purplish-red with a rainbow-like iridescence to it whenever he shines it into the light.

“Dorian—I—I don’t know what to say, it must have cost you a fortune…” Cullen gapes, still a bit baffled as to why Dorian is gifting him jewellry. Is this a Tevinter tradition? Will he have to reciprocate? Because the mere idea of finding something Dorian will wear, and that actually fits with his wardrove is—

“Don’t be daft, you foolish man. That’s a sending crystal, rare and expensive, like me,” Dorian winks. “I assume you will be seeing Bull, quite a lot, in the near future, and instead of allowing that lummox near something this fragile, well, I thought I’d give it to the one that tries to display more finesse out of you two.”

Cullen holds his breath for a beat, air having been punched out of his stomach as his cheeks heat up, “This is—Dorian this truly is invaluable. Thank you.”

“Now, now, if you keep that up, all this sentimentalism will bring me to tears. Just call often, will you?” his voice wavers for an instant. “Tevinter politics are horribly dull, and I’d like to hear from you two once or twice a month. Maybe we could do something like Bull and Solas did? Play some distance chess, discuss all those horrible books being published about Mahanon by Chantry scholars…”

“I’ll try calling twice a week, no promises for Bull being there though.”

Even if he seems taken aback by Cullen’s eagerness, Dorian regains his composure quicker this time, “And they say Mahanon and I are two lovelorn fools,” he mutters, not unkindly, his voice high enough for Cullen to hear. “Shall we—”

“Commander,” Cullen has to grab the lapels of his coat not to jump on his seat, turning to see Charter standing a few feet away from them, her expression unreadable, “Divine Victoria requires your presence at the Alchemist’s Quarters.”

“Of course,” Cullen answers by rote. “It seems like our game will have to meet its end later, Ambassador Pavus.”

Wariness and that same sense of fragility from before resurface in Dorian’s expression when Cullen turns back to him, vanishing as soon as he clears his throat, or at least, getting covered by a handsome joyous mask, “Of course, wouldn’t want news spreading that the Inquisition’s golden boy actually lost against the evil Tevinter Magister.”

Dorian’s posture doesn’t relax when Cullen stands to walk away, his mask does seem to slip for a miss it if you blink moment, at the very same moment that Cullen tucks the pendant into his breast pocket, the iridescence of the stone dimming down.

They walk past the plaza, the market and tavern, Cullen’s eyebrows raising alarmedly at the broad back he sees occupying the entire breadth and height of the door leading into the alchemist’s shed. Bull expression is sombre, Charter knocks on the frame prior to scurrying in, his arms are crossed on his front and he dedicates a brief nod in Cullen’s direction before his eye zeroes back in on what he’s looking at.

Cullen represses his urge to gag. The sour-sweet smell of wilted flowers enters his system—memories of rotting meat, corpses, decomposing bodies, so many mages and _oh_ , her, in all her ethereal glory. Her lithe body swaying to gravitate over him, the purple tint to her supple flesh, her kisses sweet but also sweet, and cloying, and _wrong—_

“Commander,” Divine Victoria’s voice brings him out of his stupor.

Bull and Charter are staring too. Cullen has to steady his breath, count to ten, and it is not until he rubs the back of his neck that he notices how profusely he is sweating, how his other hand was tightly gripping the hem of his coat, close to where his sword should have been strapped.

“Apologies,” Cullen manages to croak out, looking away from the three of them and focusing his attention back on the body. Wicker like armour, ochre and red over grey skin—a shudder runs up Cullen’s spine—the realisation that the colour is not due to the body’s age dawning over him like a pile of rocks. “What is a Qunari’s body doing inside the Winter Palace?” he whispers to himself, not expecting an answer, but certainly knowing that he’s going to get one.

“That’s what we are trying to ascertain.” Her Holiness has changed from her formal regalia into a much more plain tunic and breeches, the way her eyes search for Cullen’s a tell strong enough for him to know that she’s noticed his reaction, she _knows_.

“Looks like a man from the _antaam_ , no weapon, probably _sten_ ,” Bull gets closer to the body, crouching in front of it to lift one of their arms lightly. “The nosebleed and the kind of blows he received; scorch marks on the armour, the bruising close to the ribs—looks like a mage’s work,” he curses in _qunlat_ under his breath, words that Cullen’s heard before but whose meaning he doesn’t understand.

“The ones on his arms and leg look like something a blade would do. I don’t think it would be preposterous to assume that a short one, like the ones popularised in staffs along the years after the Rebellion, would match,” Cullen hears himself say having walked closer to the body.

Leliana nods, her frown deepening as a scout makes their way into the hut and whispers something in her ear sprinting away immediately, as if they hadn’t even been there, “The Council will meet by the next toll of the bell, I will alert the Inquisitor as soon as the chance arises. I am certain he will want to investigate the matter personally.”

“If you expected to get something else from me—I’m sorry to say, but since that dreadnaught sunk the Qun hasn’t sent me shit. Except for, you know, all those assassins and veiled threats.” Cullen recognises Bull’s stance as uneasy, his fingers tapping minutely against his bicep as an exasperated sigh leaves his lips.

“I know, but should the events unravel one way or another, you are our closest source to the Qun and their plans,” Leliana reassures Bull, her spymaster persona ever-present.

“And we shouldn’t alert the nobles because this is—something of still unknown origin to us, right, your Holiness?” Cullen asks, dismissing to formulate it as an affirmation, convinced that his idea of deploying the Inquisition troops would get rejected, or simply laughed at.

“Exactly, Commander. And I insist, call me Leliana, please,” she chastises him before her expression hardens again. “I do want you aware of the possibility of danger though, and shall the need of more vigilance arise—”

“The troops shall be ready.”

“Good. We will inform the rest of the Inner Circle as soon as the Inquisitor investigates a bit, until then, I trust you utmost discretion regarding this matter,” Divine Vic—Leliana says as her farewell. Bull and Cullen get escorted out of the room by Charter, the door closing behind Bull’s back with a sharp thud.

He stands close to Bull, as they begin to walk towards a secluded patio, a small well resting in the intersection of a few modest houses, probably belonging to servants or minor-nobles.

“You are absolutely sure that the Qun didn’t have any plans to invade the Winter Palace while you were still in there?” Cullen asks, crossing his arms, his back ramrod straight as he sees Bull sit down at the edge of the well.

“Shit, no. Plus, those guys? They have an invasion plan ready for everywhere in the world any day of the week. Monday’s laundry day and Tuesday’s how are we going to invade Antiva day.”

“Yeah well, that’s insufficient. There has to be a chance that you’ve heard _something_. There has to be a reason for a member of the _antaam_ to actually appear here while a council that will decide the Inquisition’s fate is being held.” Cullen’s tone has been rising without him noticing, and by the time he finishes speaking Bull is looking at him, incredulous.

“Well, Cullen, big fucking news. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the day I decided to put my boys before my fucking people they stopped giving a nug’s ass about me!” Bull bellows, rising dangerously.

Bull’s breathing is coming out hard, fast, rattling against his throat. Or maybe that’s Cullen, who until he’s forced to unclasp the top button of his coat hadn’t noticed he was hyperventilating.

“Look,” Bull says, his tone lower, his eye steely. “I know trust is a big fucking issue for you for very different reasons to mine, but if you are having a hard time believing that I would betray the Inquisition and my boys for a place back with those assholes, you really need to give it some more fucking thought.”

“It’s not that,” Cullen says defensively, “I trust you!”

“Now look me in the eye and say it again,” Bull snorts.

Cullen hadn’t realised he had averted his gaze. He hadn’t realised that his hands are fisted again and that his breathing hasn’t evened out, at all.

 _I trust you whole-heartedly, Knight Captain_ , she had said, her fingers around the parchment in which the Right of Annulment had been approved, her smile triumphant, pale curls framing her face around the bronzed Andraste’s crown she used to wear over her scarlet hood. Those same fingers that had held the tranquil brand in between them, twirling it as if it were simply a quill or a fun little implement, not something that could completely eradicate another person’s will.

 _I trust you_ echoes in his brain, a cacophony that reverberates until it filtres into his bloodstream, like poison. Devotion to the Order, a drug that had brought so much pain to others, to him.

He tries to rationalise, knowing that Bull’s trust, his trust to him is not tainted like that, it’s not made to hurt anyone and will not drive him through the wrong path, not again. Bull thinks of his well-being. Bull wants him to be better, to get better—and yet…

“I can’t,” he says softly almost pleading, shaking his head, eyes focused on Bull’s.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Bull sighs, rising up. “If you wanna talk, you know where I’ll be.”

Bull taps Cullen’s shoulder, leaving down the street.

Leaving Cullen alone, by the well, in silence.

* * *

It only goes downhill from there.

Eluvians, the Crossroads, seizing control of Halamshiral.

By the second day, Cullen doesn’t know when the last time he slept or ate was. Lavellan comes out of the mirror like a flash, patrols bringing him and those who go through food and drink before he makes his way to the war-table and dutifully reports.

Bull and Dorian look deeply troubled, Sera almost reluctant to go back in after their first trip. After the second one, Varric evades Lavellan’s eyes, sitting by the door of the room they are using to confer with Cole a few feet away.

“At this rate, he’s going to bust,” Varric grits in between his teeth, by the time Cullen answers him, Cole has already evaporated.

The third incursion happens, Bull and Dorian go back in accompanying Lavellan along with Cole. Elvhen servants begin to disappear, and those who remain move around the palace like phantoms, uncertain and afraid. The nobles are strung up tight, and both the Duke and Ambassador Teagan keep pressing the advisors for information they lack.

He doesn’t get to speak with Bull, who has become a steady member on Lavellan’s incursions since they began. They exchange fleeting glances and formal words in the war-table, and Bull keeps looking at him as if worried, his eye fixed onn Cullen’s hands when they shake and on his head whenever Cullen’s hands stray up to massage his temples for too long.

Cassandra insists on staring at him pitifully, as if she understood what was going on, even if Cullen knows she cannot—they probably are having a lover’s spat on her mind, or the stress of the situation is keeping them from being honest with each other; which being honest about it, is not _that_ far away from the truth.

The rumours make it even worse. Whispers of the Qunari having infiltrated thanks to the Inquisition, of one of the members of the Inner Circle being responsible for all of this.

By the third night, after Lavellan returns from the Eluvian and almost faints due to the crackling green light that emanates from the rift-like veins on his skin, Cullen wants to scream.

He watches as scouts fleet out of the room, like Leliana’s personal ravens, marching to inform those who the Inquisitor will take to wait next to the improvised armoury they have set close to the Eluvian.

The night is silent when Cullen exits through one of the service doors, cool air brushes the tangle of curls at the back of his neck, making him wonder when was the last time he put something on them so that he could at least look mildly professional. He can feel his whole body aching, his head pounding after his screaming match with Josephine. He’ll need to apologise, maybe find one of those dolls she so covetously keeps close to her desk? Or a pretty piece of jewellery? Maybe a box of chocolates?

Cullen wanders aimlessly through empty streets, all of them heavily patrolled by Inquisition soldiers who don’t break their position at his approach, not even to salute. There’s a mellow tune coming from the half empty tavern, scouts and some soldiers sit in chairs and tables with their drinks almost untouched—tension rippling through the air like a finely tensed fishing line, ready to snap.

“Commander,” a lightly accented voice slips from the tavern’s side door just as Cullen rounds up the building, the clank of armour following a worried-looking Krem, who doesn’t take long to be at his side. “May I have a word?” He asks, ever so politely.

“Lieutenant, I don’t know if this is the right moment, the Inquisitor—”

“I promise I’ll be brief,” Krem insists, his face dead serious.

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“You need to apologize to the Chief. I don’t know what’s been going on with you two and I honestly don’t care, but if something happens to them inside one of those fucking mirrors, you are both going to regret it,” Krem is blunt, precise, and to the point.

Anger boils inside Cullen, at his own incompetence to be able to say a single word or at Bull acting like that for being under duress after so long, he doesn’t know, “I don’t appreciate you overstepping into my personal life like that, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, Maker, believe me, I know. But the Chief cares about you, a whole fucking lot, and if kicking you in the ass for you to acknowledge that you do too, no matter the lover’s spat you’ve had, it’s what it takes—”

“He believes I don’t trust him! So there! If my own ineptitude at being able to express myself is going to be what finally comes in between us, so be it. We all knew that the day was going to come when I—”

“Trust is brittle to him,” a soft-spoken voice whispers from behind. It makes Cullen swirl around, sword in hand. “Must be tenderly treated. It taints easily, but he wants to offer it to you, like a gift.” Cole stands behind him, his face obscured by the wide brim of his hat, hands fiddling with something in the air that not Cullen nor Krem can see.

“Maker take you both! I have an army to command! An important mission is about to take place, and I swear by Andraste, that if I don’t get into the lower level of the Winter Palace immediately I will—”

“You almost say the word sometimes. _Katoh_. You taste it in your mouth, sweet release a breath away, tongue tying it tenderly like he ties you. But you don't. For you, and for him because it makes it mean more. A fuller feeling, a brighter burst.”

Krem is staring wide-eyed at both of them, his face a deeper shade of red than Cullen has ever seen it, and were he not as exhausted as he is, he’d feel far more self-conscious about the way the spirit’s words make heat bloom on his cheeks. “Cole, I think that’s enough,” he mutters exasperated, turning to leave only to encounter himself face to face with wide, empty sockets.

The dragon skull. Bull’s present, propped up against one of the many benches outside the tavern, like a grim reminder of who sat there a couple of days prior, what will remain of him if the _viddasala_ succeeds—if Bull gets stripped away of everything that makes him Bull.

“Why don’t you listen?” Cole pleads, coming to stand in front of Cullen, gangly limbs stuttering into a halt in his puppet-like way to move. “Uldred marked you but didn’t make you. Meredith singed you but didn’t shape you. You stayed you. The Iron Bull understands, he sees the sunlight trapped in your hair and winter chill in your heart, he knows that you are trying to warm it up. But you have to tell him.”

This time Cole presents one of his hands, clenched into a fist, to Cullen. He stares, not knowing what to do, Krem still watching the display, which surprisingly no other patron of the tavern tried to take a peek at. Cullen places his hand underneath Cole’s, who opens his to let a small, velvety pink string-pouch drop into Cullen’s palm.

“He can keep it safe in his pocket too,” Cole says, cryptically, and as Cullen looks down to take a better look at the pouch, he’s gone.

The pouch is small, big enough to fit a small stone, maybe some earrings, or a plain ring. Cullen opens it to find nothing in, and as his hand draws into one of his coat pockets to place it there for safekeeping he realises.

It had been one of Cole’s late letters, prior to Cullen’s visit to the Herald’s Rest asking him to stop. _The centre never changed, kept safe like a coin in your pocket_.

He must hurry or by the time he gets there, it will be too late.

“We’ll speak about your insubordination later Lieutenant Aclassi,” Cullen shouts in Krem’s general direction, sprinting towards the room where the Eluvian is being held.

He hears Krem shout something back, bewildered, but Cullen’s almost in the main plaza, taken the stairs two at a time when he registers it, too far to actually parse the meaning of what he’s heard. He almost slips in the waxed floor, as he dashes up to the blue and golden door that remains ajar, soldiers staring at him in disbelief. Cullen doesn’t want to know how dishevelled he looks, knowing that Josephine will probably murder him when he least expects it, as his jacket is almost completely unbuttoned and he’s lost his shash somewhere in between the war-table and the basement. He’s also glad, for once, that the Eluvian doesn’t act as a proper mirror with a working reflective surface, because he doesn’t think he’s in any state he wants to see himself in.

His right hand goes into his pocket once more, fiddling with the two objects inside before he makes up his mind, opening the door to get inside.

Lavellan is nowhere to be seen, the atmosphere more sombre than it ever got to be the day before the battle against Corypheus. Sera stands in a corner, talking in the lowest voice he’s heard her ever use to a Blackwall who looks far more unkempt than Cullen’s ever witnessed him be. Dorian and Cassandra seem to not have arrived yet. Cole could be there, and no one would have noticed; maybe Varric, though he seems busy, talking to Madame de Fer and—Bull.

He looks even more haggard than he did when they had exited the Eluvian, his serious tone and posture making it almost impossible to hide the exhaustion he carries in his body. Cullen clears his throat, making the low murmur in the room quieten down, “May I fetch Bull for a second?”

Bull schools his features before looking up, and nods. Cullen turns and waits for him in the corridor, not wanting to put up with the others’ looks—with their scorn, their smirks, or what feels worse, their understanding.

Cullen signals at Bull to follow, walking towards the veranda that’s placed down the corridor, overlooking the gardens, marble statues the palace’s own ghost regiment, looking ready to strike or to crumble at any possible sign of enemy attack.

“Look, Cullen,” Bull starts speaking before they stop. Cullen can see Bull’s hand shooting up to grip his shoulder, before it falls into his own arm instead, uncertain, “I said some shitty stuff the other day, and I know it’s not your fault being overwhelmed by all—this. Not your fault how shittily I’m handling it either.”

Cullen frowns, he’s aware that Bull has been tense, his reports after each crossing through the mirror had been almost automatic, especially technical and completely devoid of emotion after the second one. “What scares you?”

“Shit, about this? Everything. Not knowing shit about the _viddasala_ ’s plans, the Qun actually succeeding with an invasion, _demons_ …” he enumerates, his voice slowly dying down, expression turning stony once again as his eye searches for Cullens’, uncertain.

“You are scared you made the wrong choice, that day, in the Storm Coast?”

Bull’s breath hitches, his look turning wild for a second, and Cullen truly thinks that this is it, this is where he definitely has fucked it up. But Bull sighs, sadly, air coming unevenly out of his nose. A nod follows, brief, defeated.

“Look at me,” Cullen’s hands gently come up to cup Bull’s head, fingers tracing the outer shell of his ears, brushing against the hard keratin shell close to his horns before he dares speak again, “Whatever information your old contacts could have provided. Whatever hint they could have given us as to why the Qun is doing this. It’s not worth the loss of who you are. And I feel like a damn egotistical fool for saying this, but—you’ve done _so much_ good for other people as the Iron Bull. I would have deeply mourned you throwing away all that for—military prowess.”

Bull chuckles wetly, his forest green eye glassy, completely focused on Cullen’s face, “Shitty speech for a military leader, don’t you think?”

Cullen snorts, shaking his head a couple of times, “I think your heart is in the right place. Even if it takes him—too long to actually notice relevant information, and he certainly skirts away from trying to talk about important stuff far too often… Maker this is so—”

“Flowery? Cheesy? I can call Varric so he can take some ideas from you,” Bull hums, still smiling, lowering his body a bit so that both their foreheads can meet, their noses brushing.

“I—last two times I trusted something bigger than myself,” Cullen continues speaking, unperturbed, not wanting to get distracted by Bull’s teasing. He can hear footsteps echoing down the hall, he knows they are running out of time, “well, you know how it turned out.”

“I am certainly bigger than most people—”

_Tap, tap, tap._

“Maker take you, let me finish!” he hushes him hurriedly. “In the bedroom, in the battlefield or out here—I trust _you_ Bull, I trust your choices and whatever you decide to do, because I believe in you, and believe that you have the best interest of those you love at heart…”

“ _Kadan_ …” Bull’s lips brush his, gently, so _so_ gently.

“Commander!” Cullen hears Cassandra’s heavy accented voice, dropping his hands and turning to look at her, sees her hauling a very unsteady Inquisitor into the room, Dorian’s pleading expression surfacing from beneath Mahanon’s other arm.

“It’ll only be a minute!” Cullen calls back, his hand launching into his pocket to get the little pink satchel out, a light weight now fitted inside. “Happy belated birthday, Bull,” he slips it into Bull’s left hand, who first looks at Cullen and then at his own palm.

“You know I told you it wasn’t really my birthday, right?” Bull crooks up a smirk, pulling one of the strings up to let the worn thin silver coin lying inside fall into his hand, Andraste´s serene expression staring up from it, under the pale rays of the moon.

Bull raises his eyebrows quizzically, but before he can ask, Cullen closes Bull’s fingers around it, one by one, the ones that are missing leaving the paper-thin edge of the coin in sight. “When I left for Templar training, when I was thirteen, my brother gave me this. It just happened to be in his pocket but he said it was for luck. Templar’s are not supposed to carry such things, our _faith_ should see us through. I don’t know what you’ll encounter on the other side of that mirror—I fear it, but take it with you…”

“For luck?” Bull asks, fist clenching around it, as if feeling its weight, its touch.

“For me,” Cullen says, perhaps a bit too hopeful.

The kiss Bull gives him is deep, passionate almost. Every kiss they have shared since Bull’s return pales in comparison. Cullen grabs Bull’s neck to pull him closer, so tired but so ready to not let go. Not yet, he needs a second more, a minute more, to ensure that Bull’s going to come back, to try and convince himself that everything will be alright.

But it has to end. Bull ends it, pulling away reluctantly. “I just want you to know, that when I’m back, there’s no bed that’s gonna be unsteady enough for you to use as an excuse. Mark. My Words,” he leers.

“G—good,” Cullen blushes a bit—maybe a lot—he’s not sure, with how sweaty he feels from his run here and all the accumulated exhaustion on top of that.

Bull smiles after dropping a last kiss on the tip of Cullen’s nose, before he marches away, fist raised, coin still clutched inside, in mock salute.

And Cullen is left alone in the dark again, hope his only companion.


	3. A Night Blooming Flower

Cullen wakes to what feels like someone knocking on the inside of his skull. He sighs with relief when it stops, groaning painfully when loud barking starts somewhere on his left, followed by the insistent scraping of nails on wood and whining. Did he come visit Mia at South Reach? Is this the family barn?

When he sluggishly opens his eyes, he stays completely disoriented for far longer than he’d have liked to acknowledge, the gold and blue accents over the pure whiteness of the ceiling make him close them again, too much light, too fast.

The knocking starts again more urgently, the barking more insistent.

“Commander!” Comes a voice from the other side of the door, and then he remembers.

The clusterfuck that had been the Exalted Council, so far, comes like a torrent, overtaking any sense of peace he might have had achieved in his sleep and substituting it with an anxiety that courses through his whole body like wildfire. Standing is almost impossible, as he feels his back creaking painfully, his legs refusing to support his weight as he tries to incorporate. He had fallen asleep on one of the couches in his room, reports spread over the now dwarfed coffee table, his quill and capped inkwell sitting on the floor.

Bud is whining next to the door, barking excitedly as soon as he sees Cullen trying to raise.

“Commander! It’s urgent! The Inquisitor’s back!” The voice insists, making Cullen almost fall down in his haste.

He supports himself on the settee before he tries to coltishly walk towards the door, cradling his forehead with a groan as his lips form a low whistle that makes Bud fall silent, “Acknowledged.” He opens the door, leaving it ajar to encounter one of Leliana’s scouts, their expression grave, perspiration running down their face in heavy rivulets. “Time and day?” he asks, annoyed at how his voice cracks by the end.

“26th of Kingsway, ser, just about to ring seven evening bells, ser.”

“Good, tell Her Holiness I will be down there shortly.” Cullen closes the door ahead of the scout’s response, a deep sigh rattling his lungs as he lets his forehead rest against the cool lacquered wood of the door.

He had slept almost a whole day. A whole day he could have spent going through reports or trying to build contingency plans, gone. At least the thumping on his temples is gone—reduced to a small pressure that is not bothering him too much, most of the pain he feels coming from having fallen asleep in such a posture and the churning his stomach at the thoughts of what can have happened across the mirror.

The Inquisitor, dead. Qunari invading Thedas. Magical forces none of them understand out of control. Bull _gone_.

Cullen’s on his way to the Eluvian room less than five minutes later, having combed his hair enough for it to look decent and changed the white tunic under his regalia to one that still smells clean. He has found no way of hiding the creases and folds that have formed on the suit from sleeping on it, but a rumpled uniform was still better than no uniform at all.

A steady flurry of mages, scouts and servants flows up and down the stairs as Cullen descends, most of them silent, some of them quieting their talk to hushed whispers when he passes through—staffs get clutched tighter, heads get bent lower; he wonders if they can smell the lyrium, or the lack of it in him, like Dorian could. He wonders if they would still fear him if they knew.

He doesn’t have to go down the last flight of stairs, as his eyes meet a familiar deep green one as he turns on the second to last landing. Bull. Bull walking up the stairs in a hurried but steady pace, Vivienne and Dorian both casting at an alarming speed on a bundle Bull is carrying in between his arms, only that it isn’t a bundle. They pass him, unseeing, Cassandra and Leliana in tow along with a very haggard looking Varric.

“What happened?” Cullen asks, incapable of holding out until their report—if they even give one.

“I haven’t seen shit get so messy since the clusterfuck that was Kirkwall,” Varric says gruffly. Cullen can see where an arrow has graced him in the shoulder, his hair completely torn out of his ponytail, some of the blackened as if burnt. “The Qunari have been dealt with, for now, and Chuckles was involved in all of this, somehow. Shit, it’s gonna break the Kid’s heart when I tell him.”

The corridor they get to is full to the brim with activity, on the same floor Cullen’s chambers are. Two imperious looking mages nod reverently to Vivienne as they disappear through a small gilded door, Dorian and Cassandra are nowhere in sight. Bull is leaning on the wall opposite to the door, eye half-lidded, posture completely slouched. Cullen can see the burn marks in his pantaloons, the wounds and bruises elfroot hasn’t managed close yet—the sheer sense of exhaustion he exudes. Shoot and dirt are clumped on his bare torso, crusts of dried up blood abundant over his midsection, even if Cullen suspects it isn’t his.

Charter approaches him, whispers something that Bull acknowledges with a nod before she darts towards them, “Her Holiness has asked for your presence at the war table in half an hour.”

Both Cullen and Varric nod as she hurriedly passes them by, scurrying down the corridor, giving way to no other than Madame de Fer, dressed in an impeccable black and golden dress, iridescent aquamarine coloured jewels inlaid into the cuffs and neck, giving her a solemnly regal appearance.

“Varric, darling, that gentleman over there should take a quick look at that cut, it would be truly dreadful if it got infected,” she chides.

Varric nods broadly in her general direction, probably feeling dismissed, making his way towards a portly looking mage in a deep blue robe. Cullen’s never seen Varric so silent, ever, and it somehow serves as a good measure to ascertain the severity of the situation.

“As for you, my dear,” Vivienne speaks again, raising one of her bejewelled hands, gold, silver, and blue glinting under the magically lit corridor.

It makes Cullen swallow, _hard_.

“Will you allow me?”

He blinks rapidly, trying not to look at her as if she had propositioned to him. Working with mages has gotten easier during the past few years—Mahanon and Dorian using magic so freely around him to do such meagre tasks as cooling a drink or lighting a candle have most certainly helped—but he still struggles with spells requiring touch. Fingers pressed against his skin, no matter how well-intentioned always set his stomach in a tangle of nerves, no matter how soothing it feels afterwards, no matter the gentleness and skill of the caster.

Cullen schools his features as best as he can, frowning a bit to try and convey a stern expression, “Madame, I’m sorry if this sounds impertinent, but I’m sure that someone requires healing more than I do.”

“Nonsense, dear. I’ve seen the face you pull when you are having one of those horrible headaches, it’s even more evident now that you are barely restraining yourself around all of us,” she smiles, “Alas, I wouldn’t like to impose myself… but I am convinced that with a little touch, you’d be left feeling right as rain. It simply will not do, having the Commander of the Inquisition running around hurting.”

“I—very well,” he nods, his mouth shaping words he doesn’t get to pronounce. He grits his teeth hard, as hard as he can when the cool touch of Madame de Fer is placed on his temple, and relaxes almost immediately, as Vivienne slowly pulls away with another smile. Cullen blinks once, twice. The headache is gone just as if Vivienne had, in a few seconds, simply pulled it away. “Madame, I—thank you.”

“Now, dear, there’s no need to thank me. If you truly want to do me a favour go speak with the Iron Bull before that very important meeting you all have. I think it would do him a world of good,” she winks before she swishes past him, gold glinting along opalescent stone on Cullen’s periphery before she’s gone.

Bull hasn’t changed positions since Cullen last looked his way, he certainly doesn’t look any better either. Cullen, though, does feel much better—physically speaking— and can think more clearly than he has been able to in a very long time. For a single heartbeat, he starts feeling selfish, until what he has to do suddenly _clicks_. Control. Bull needs someone to take the helm. It’s something that they’ve tried a couple of times before, something that Cullen used to deny wanting to do during their sessions—preferring to be ordered around, to _serve_. But at times like this; when the ghosts of his past, of Seheron, haunt Bull, leave him scrambling for something that will help him feel tethered and whole; when Bull goes almost non-verbal, his eye turning glassy and his shoulders seeming to bear an invisible load that no one but him can feel… Cullen has found that he doesn’t mind taking control, guiding someone he so deeply cares about towards safe haven—being presented with such an utter level of trust is a whole different kind of bliss, one that he has become fond of.

Determination guides the few steps that separate them, arms on his sides in an almost military manner, he addresses Bull in a calm but steady voice, “Come to my chambers once you have cleaned up and had something to eat.”

Bull nods, recognition finally apparent in his eye as a deep sigh leaves him, “Dorian is in there with him. We still have no idea of how he lost his fucking arm,” Bull grits through his teeth.

“He lost his arm!?” Cullen watches in horror how Bull nods, his frown deepening. There’s not enough blood in him, nor was there in Dorian or Varric to explain an amputation, unless, “The one with the anchor? The corrupted one?”

“Yeah, some rift magic shit went down. Also, Solas was there. Koslun’s rosy balls, I fucking swear that if we had given them time, Venatori and Red Templars would have also found some way to pop up.”

“Solas?” Cullen asks again, trying to piece together all the information that he’s being given. As he is trying to compose himself to answer, a drained looking Dorian exits through Lavellan’s room’s door, his clothes in a similar state of disarray to the rest’s, his usually primly applied make up smudged and almost completely gone.

Bull’s frown deepens, arms flexing up his front before he plants one of his hands on top of Dorian’s shoulder. “Hey, Dorian. We were dead serious when we told you to stay in there,” Bull says, softly, as if fearful of spooking him away.

The conversation they have doesn’t reach Cullen’s ears, but it ends quickly, Bull gently massaging Dorian’s shoulder while he talks to him, a rumble that gets to Cullen, bringing him a momentary sort of peace. Dorian turns to leave, glancing backwards to mouth a ‘thank you’ read in Bull’s direction, a sad defeated smile towards Cullen. Maybe, it is seeing cool and composed Dorian, fabulous but extravagant Dorian, sarcastic but loving Dorian—like that, what finally breaks Cullen’s heart for good.

Bull straightens up as he approaches Cullen, a gesture seemingly natural to anyone else but that does not go unnoticed to him. Bull wants to hide that weakness, to put the _ben-hassrath_ façade back on. And while they are out there, while in the briefing, Cullen will allow it, but once they are alone—he’s throwing that mask mercilessly out of his third-floor window.

* * *

It’s dark when Cullen exits the bath-chambers. The tolling of eleven bells accompanies him up the stairs, the halls of the palace silent save for the tapping of his soles against freshly polished tiles. He’s left Bud with Blackwall and Sera near the tavern, both looking aghast at the gesture but nonetheless endeared by the furry ruffian—proof enough to it was how Blackwall had cooed at the mabari, energetically rubbing his belly when Bud had started to happily wag his tail.

It truly had been a long week for all of them. Sharing his supper with Josephine and Leliana may as well have been one of the highlights of it—having got to barely stomach two and half hot meat-stuffed buns and an apple before he had asked Josie to stop offering him food. Letters had been sent, troops mobilised, and scouts informed to report to any of the three of them if Mahanon showed any sign of recuperating.

Silence and prayer were all they had now.

Blackwall’s door has been left ajar, the light of the corridor filtering in soft tendrils inside, as if the universe wanted to ascertain Cullen of the man not having been to his assigned room since they arrived. “Bed’s too soft after so many tavern floors,” he had explained, entranced as he petted Bud, with a wry laugh.

Now Cullen stands in front of his own door, breathing relaxed, body slack. He thinks wryly for a second about how he’s employing more of his training than he should in bedroom related activities. Defiling ages of military tradition by using them to discipline something other than mages, bringing something good with that control. It certainly makes him smile.

The handle bends seamlessly, the door opens with no sound, and by the time Cullen has it locked, he wonders for a second if Bull hasn’t arrived yet. He could have got derailed, or maybe just fallen asleep while getting ready, he certainly wouldn’t blame him. The windows hadn’t been open when he got out though, and as he walks towards them he can see a figure standing in the threshold, royal blue curtains billowing around Bull’s body, the warm orange glow of the already lit lamp illuminating him like some kind of ominous-looking avvar idol.

The latch clicking makes Bull imitate Cullen’s movements. Once the double-bladed window is closed, the chilly air remains; nothing that the well-stoked chimney won’t solve.

A single green eye meets Cullen’s. At first, he believes that in defiance, seconds later, he realises that Bull is practically pleading for him to start before one of them shatters.

“Watchword?” Cullen commands. He’s always been a man of his word.

“ _Katoh_.” As soon as it leaves his lips, Bull deflates even further, his head bowing down.

Cullen nods, satisfied. “Good. Sit,” he points towards the bed. A bed he hasn’t even tested, but that immediately seems to shudder when Bull obeys, no hesitation in his movements whatsoever.

He unhooks the buttons of his jacket one by one, turning his back to Bull to leave it hanging on the back of one of the settees, belt and sash sitting perfectly looped next to it. Gloves follow suit, each finger slowly pulled out to afterwards roll them out. Cullen breathes in once he’s done, counts to ten, and breathes out turning towards Bull. “This will not be about sex tonight, I want you to know that. You may speak when addressed, and address me if need be. Understood?”

Bull nods once again.

“Good.”

Cullen passes right past him, one of his hands lightly brushing Bull’s shoulder before he opens the drawer in his nightstand. Two objects he was very aware of lay inside: a neatly bound edition of the New Cumberland Chant of Light—probably never opened, as per the dust that’s gathered on the edges of the cover, and a squat jar of scented floral oil. The irony of the combination would have scandalised a younger him, nowadays it amuses him to no end.

The jar gets placed on the mattress, and Cullen unceremoniously falls to his knees in front of Bull. He’s kept his boots on purpose, even if they are a bit tight around his calves, hoping to arouse the same primal feeling on Bull’s stomach that seeing him wearing them arouses in Cullen whenever he’s the one giving himself away like this.

With deliberately slow movements, he begins undoing Bull’s boots laces, taking care of properly unhooking his ankle brace to neatly deposit it on the foot of the bed. Once that’s done he calmly comes up, feeling Bull’s eye warily following him.

“I will undo your belt, then your harness, finally your eyepatch. Nod if that’s ok.”  
Bull nods before Cullen has time to finish the sentence. “Eager”, he mutters with a satisfied smirk.

Undoing Bull’s belt is a bit more tricky, it takes him longer to pull the straps free than it takes him to unhook the belt-like brace over Bull’s arm; they soon both lay on the floor next to the brace. Cullen’s fingers trace a slow path, up from Bull’s gut, traversing every scar he can find until he reaches Bull’s damaged shoulder. Cullen brushes his lips over it.

His hands roam up Bull’s neck, cupping his face so that he can look up at Cullen. Gently, as gently as he can, Cullen rids Bull of his eyepatch, leaving the flesh underneath exposed. He doesn’t resist the temptation of leaving another kiss there.

“I need you to help me with your pants,” Cullen says, fingers hooked around the hem, swiftly tugging at the drawstring, to afterwards begin sliding them down.

Bull barely moves, sits up enough so the billowy striped pantaloons can slide down his arse and down his legs. They fall to the ground, a crimson-green puddle in the midst of so many white, blue and gold—like Bull on top of the bed, his body could be carved out of the finest granites, but unlike the statues in the gardens, he doesn’t look as if he would crumble.

The oil jar rests in Cullen’s hand when he kneels again, pushing Bull’s pants aside before he methodically opens it, dipping a finger inside to test the thickness of the slick before coating four of them on it.

“Right,” he commands.

Bull rises his right leg obediently.

Cullen doesn’t lose any time, massaging it thoroughly. First his foot, then slowly moving over the toes and arch to bend it slightly on his ankle, digging his fingers into the articulation, loosening the muscle. He tries to be especially careful, more so when he finishes up in Bull’s knee, hands crawling up the outer side and asks Bull, “Left.”

Bull lets his right leg fall. Cullen repeats the process even more meticulously. Careful with the areas that he knows are too sensitive, allowing himself to simply caress those that don’t retain much feeling, kneading those where he knows the knotting and tension will gather further… Every now and then he has to keep doing his breathing exercises not to look up, because he knows that if he meets Bull’s gaze right now, if they see each other in such a state of vulnerability, something will break—someone will.

Cullen stands up on wobbly legs, and if Bull notices, his submissive demeanour doesn’t change at all. He lets the jar fall back on the bed, cracking his knuckles in a position Bull can see, grabbing his chin with two of his fingers to tip it up, “I’m going to be on your back now, on your blind side. If it’s too much, you know what to do.”

Bull’s nod comes, later than expected, as if Bull had needed time to parse the meaning of what Cullen was saying.

“Good,” Cullen reassures him out loud. It means what he’s doing is working, it’s sending Bull into _that_ state. He envies him a little, doesn’t let the thoughts creep up on him, as he also knows fully well that it could be dangerous. Bull is entrusting him with his vulnerability, he’s giving him absolute control, and Cullen intends to painstakingly honour that gift.

Bull’s back is equally marred as his front. Jagged scars and discoloured patches of skin run through it, from the back of his neck to the crack of his buttocks. Ink snakes itself from Bull’s arms and into his back, patterns of what look like unknown beasts and idols to Cullen sprawled over Bull’s shoulder-blades, clashing every time he shifts, every time he swings his axe. It’s a magnificent sight; Bull is.

Cullen cradles Bull’s hips with his, straddling him, framing Bull’s sides with his own legs, the soft polished leather of his booths brushing Bull’s hips and outer thighs. “You are being very good, letting go, letting me tend to you,” Cullen dares whisper on Bull’s ear, hearing Bull exhale shakily before he feels the hot air, Bull’s skin pebbling under the finger that’s trailing up and down his back, from the base of his neck to his tail-bone, fine almost imperceptible white hairs standing on end.

He has to be more careful with Bull’s arms than he was with his legs, rolling them carefully on the sockets. Cullen has to remember how to gently move Bull’s neck, how to push him forward or backwards slightly enough as to not get him out of it. Cullen’s fingertips brush a small path up to the location he is going to massage next so that Bull can prepare, so that he doesn’t get startled.

The fire crackling is the only sound in the room along Bull’s steady breathing, which also sputters and startles, just as the fire does. The smooth gliding of skin over skin can also be heard, Cullen doesn’t pay it much attention though. It’s not a sound he has to be mindful of, it’s not something that can upset how things are going.

The end has to be built leisurely, just as he has built the beginning. Cullen’s fingers slowly skate the path up to Bull’s head, up the back of his neck until they reach his hairline, tracing it frontwards until he reaches the base of his horns.

“I don’t have your horn balm here, nor your brush. I hope this is not too greasy for them,” his breath brushes softly against Bull’s scalp.

A twitch is all Cullen gets as a response. Without further ado he lets his fingers start by massaging the harder skin, where horn meets skin and bone. The process is faster than usual, being unable to use the proper tools and not wanting to make anything worse for Bull later, he just dips his fingers in the fragrant oily poultice. It doesn’t smell strong enough to turn cloying even after such an extensive application—bandal aria and elfroot perhaps, something mellower underneath, more floral. The slides are just as Bull had taught him once, from base to tip. Cullen makes them three times in both directions on each horn, to smoothly glide back through the path they came, scratching Bull’s short shorn hair to finish, a small personal indulgence.

“Thank you,” Cullen says, his breathing measured, incapable of conveying all he can feel from something so simple as _this,_ which at the same time is not simple at all. Not for them. Not with the respective weights they carry.

He uncurls himself from behind Bull, biting his own lips when the hardness which has begun to build under his pants brushes Bull’s back. Not here, not now, he chastises himself, picking the jar up without looking at Bull to deposit it on the bedside table.

Propped against the wall, next to the window, he gets rid of his own boots, his now oil-stained tunic following suit, along with his pants and stockings which take a bit longer to get rid of. The water in the washbasin is way too cold, but he’s had worse—Skyhold and Greenfell come to mind, and cleans his hands and arms without making a sound. Once he’s done, his eyes go back to Bull’s back, even more slumped than when they had started, which brings a small secretive smile to Cullen’s lips.

Just wearing his breeches, he pads around the bed, drawing back coverings and sheets on both sides. He pulls some wood into the fireplace, wanting to avoid the early morning chill, and walks his way to stand next to Bull, who Cullen doesn’t know if even registers him.

“I want you to get into bed now, come on,” he asks, tone gentling as his hands move to help him stand on shaky legs, walking the few steps up the bed and into it.

In moments like this, when silence is all that remains, soft firelight as their only companion Cullen is reminded of the Western Approach, of a vine that grew curling itself up through the cracks and crevices of Griffon Wing Keep, close to the area were the meagre wellspring lay. Rylen had once called it Satina’s Grace, its flowers similar to those of Andraste’s and Crystal graces in shape, a rich purple colour instead. Thorny bushes with hard looking buds that looked charred under the sun. Buds that opened into flowers. Flowers that closed tightly during the day, which when kissed by moonlight, under that white stark light that illuminated the planes of rolling sand, they opened to reveal a softer interior—sun-kissed, with silverite-like bluish flecks.

He knows he’ll never be able to tell Bull, he knows that if he does, the lightest thing he will get away with is some teasing. Cullen supposes it wouldn’t be so bad, getting compared to one of Varric’s characters almost seems like a minor offense after being presented with something like this.

A deep sigh flutters out of Bull’s lips when Cullen finally lets go as he’s laid down. Cullen bows down to kiss his brow, making his way to the lit lamp to blow it off, his feet carrying him to the other side of the bed, pulling sheets and covers over himself before he scuttles closer to Bull’s side, who has already managed to prop himself up in a way that his horns don’t bother him, in a way his only eye is fixed on Cullen.

“You good, _kadan_?” Cullen asks in a whisper.

Bull nods, a deep rumbling hum vibrating against Cullen’s torso, his hand getting cradled by Bull’s, who fiddles with his fingers, tracing them from their pad to where they join his hand. “You can’t even begin to imagine…”

Cullen smiles, the best smile he can muster as he scoots closer, forehead brushing Bull’s.

“Rest.”

Bull obeys.

* * *

Wet kisses on the back of his neck, over his shoulders, down his back. Teeth gracing a spot on his neck that makes Cullen moan before they sink on the top of his clavicle, pain blooming, his eyes flying open as a guttural moan rips through him

“G’morning,” Bull rumbles, voice coming from behind Cullen, his hips getting kneaded insistently by Bull’s warm calloused hands.

Sun enters through the clear glass of the tall windows, bathing the room in a soft grey-white light. It’s either very early or an incredibly cloudy morning.

“Hey,” Cullen whispers hoarsely, “you slept well?”

Heavy pressure rutting against Cullen’s still clothed ass is enough to make him sigh, breath quickening as Bull’s hand skids up his front, brushing his nipples in a way that makes Cullen tightly close his eyes and groan.

“Best sleep I’ve had in a _long_ while,” Bull laughs, his breath still hot against Cullen’s back, hands coming to lift his head and turn it aside, so that Cullen can look Bull properly in the eye; a single eye that shines with unbridled lust .“Hey,” he greets, kissing Cullen’s mouth.

Cullen moans at the contact, Bull’s tongue sliding in as he does, deepening the kiss, manoeuvring Cullen’s body towards him so that they are face to face, making the posture less awkward, Cullen’s hips beginning to grind against Bull’s at their own accord. Cullen needs it. Cullen craves it. A steady warm sensation building at the pit of his stomach and spreading through his body, so fast, so hot, he thinks that Bull will get burnt.

“Hey, _kadan_ , hey,” Bull calls, hand coming up to cradle Cullen’s face, fingers tracing spit slick lips. “I need you to tell me that this is OK, that you want it.”

“Yes, _yes_ , please,” Cullen all but begs in a hurry, lips wrapping around Bull’s finger to suck, then letting go to gently lap at it. The salty taste of skin, the hard bumps where skin has hardened. He lets go with an uneven gasp. “I missed you—I—” his words get lost in Bull’s mouth, another deep kiss that leaves him as a bumbling, shaky mess.

“It’s very difficult not to miss me,” Bull leers, satisfied, hands pinching both of Cullen’s nipples in tandem, which rips a loud yelp from his lips, followed by a keening moan. “With this size? The gap I usually leave behind it’s _quite_ impressive you know,” he _winks_.

Cullen raises one of his shaky hands and outright punches him, “Fuck you.”

“Nah, gonna fuck _you_ ,” Bull smirks, wetting his lips before he sits up, pushing all the bedding aside.

“Andraste’s tits!” Cullen hisses, the cold air of the room making goosebumps raise on his skin.

Bull laughs echoes through the room, tongue clicking as he throws the jar Cullen had left on the night-stand the previous night into the mattress. “Damn Orlesian’s know what they are doing.

“The Chant of Light and a glass full of oil, pick your poison before going to sleep, I guess.”

“Yeah, always looked like they liked _kneeling_ a lot,” Bull grins, predatory, leaving no time for Cullen to protest before he pounces on him, beast-like.

“Not gonna ask me for my word?” A soft gasp comes out of his lips as Bull kisses them again, licking up his scar, licking down and kissing them again.

“Nah. I mean, if you need it and use it, I’ll stop, same as always. But I don’t think this shit is gonna get any more intense than usual,” Bull shrugs with a smile. “Besides, I _trust_ you’ll say it when you need it, and that’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

Cullen nods, slowly, his face slack for a moment at the softness that shows in Bull’s face for a few beats of his own racing heart. It doesn’t go away when Bull kisses him once again, nor when his hands snake their way down to Cullen’s smalls, fingers pinching the waistband on both sides to tug them down.

The moan that quavers in Cullen’s throat upon cold air coming into contact with his flagging erection turns his face a deep shade of red, Bull’s rolling chuckle indicating that it is not the only reddened thing on him right now.

“Fuck,” Bull says, one of his wet fingers trailing up from Cullen’s legs and around the thatch of dark curls in between his legs, barely gracing the tip of Cullen’s cock before he pulls it away, “barely touched you and you are already like this?”

“It’s been four months!” Cullen hates how whiny he sounds, how he lifts his arm so that he can shield his face underneath, his heart and breathing quivering against his ribcage.

When silence is the only answer he gets and Bull doesn’t make further contact, Cullen lowers his arm to his mouth, peeking up to see Bull staring at him thoughtfully.

“You know you can—do this, with other people,” Bull’s tone is dead serious.

Cullen waits, blinking the wetness out of his eyes, heat crawling from his cheeks down his neck, “I—it’s not about the sex. So, I—I want you. Just you.” Maker, he’s made a stuttering fool of himself. His tongue feels thick in his mouth, he’s about to try and say something else when he feels Bull’s warm hand on his side, Bull’s breath against the side of his cheek, and just as Cullen twists his neck to look up, Bull’s mouth against his. Devouring. Taking.

When they part, a small trail of spit dribbles down the corner of Bull’s lip, his tongue peeking out to lick it away. “Good, ‘cause you’re gonna have me,” he leers.

Before Cullen can say anything else, in a movement that’s far too fluid for how big Bull is, he ducks down, his mouth closing around Cullen’s cock—Cullen screams. He hurriedly stuffs his hand inside his mouth, trying to muffle down the moan that follows as Bull’s tongue swirls around the head, his left hand pressed over Cullen’s stomach, to hold him down while the left grips Cullen’s left leg viciously, angling it up so that it ends resting over Bull’s shoulder

“Andraste’s arse! Bull, I can’t—today I won’t—” he moans, feeling the pleasure building, his hands flying down to grip at one of Bull’s horns while with the other he tries to keep hiding his face to no avail. Cullen wants to see Bull, wants to see what he is doing, and when he finally looks down he finds Bull smiling around his dick, looking far too pleased for the position he is in.

Any minute now, any minute now it’s going to overtake him. It feels like rolling thunder, like rolling waves mounting as the storm comes, as a scorching wildfire that threatens to consume him. Another whimper escapes Cullen as Bull pulls away slightly, only to sink in deeper, taking the entirety of Cullen’s length without much effort.

“Bull! Bull, please—please _kadan_ , I can’t! I want—together, please.” He knows he’s babbling, he knows that what he’s saying doesn’t make sense at all but he needs contact, he needs Bull. He wants to feel his skin, all of him and not just his mouth—he needs… A faint cough brings Cullen out of his stupor, cracking his eyes open to see Bull mere inches away from his dick, smiling wolfishly.

“You see—I really, _really_ wanted to fuck you today, maybe even get some toys and ropes in, for flavour, you know, celebrating that you are here again.

Cullen nods dumbly, rivulets of what he supposes is sweat sliding down his cheeks.

“Now, I know that if I put it in today, riding anywhere is gonna be a very literal pain in the ass for you.”

“ _Fuck_ , shut up! And do—do something! I cannot—I…”

Bull’s expression softens for a second, a half-smile that seems completely out of place curling on his lips as he pushes one of his hands to Cullen’s cheek, caressing carefully. “Sh, sh, I know, _kadan_ , I know.”

Cullen hiccups again to realise that some of the last sounds he’s made have been sobs, and as he raises his hand to his cheek, that some of the liquid that he believed to be sweat had been tears.

“Maker I—this had never—It had never happened, I’m sorry,” he tries to say.

Tears are not uncommon, not to them, not in bed. They usually accompany other kinds of activities though; whips, ropes or the phallus-shaped implements Bull endearingly likes to call toys. During sex with no artifice they tended to happen less, or that’s what Cullen likes to believe—not that he was aware of much of what happened when the intensity of it all overtook him. It’s not about the pleasure though, not _only_ about the pleasure, not today; a giddy part in him knowing all too well that it’s also, putting it simply, because he really loves Bull. And tears of joy are something he will gift him freely, with no shame to them.

“Look, it’s normal to feel overwhelmed. I swear, you are so responsive today, you have been doing so _so_ good, _kadan_. I had missed those little sounds you make, all those little moans, and how pretty you look when you can’t hold it anymore,” Bull says close to Cullen’s ear. His face so close to Cullen’s skin he can feel it on his neck along with Bull’s thundering beating heart. “Now, I know today—we are both tired, and everything is gonna feel like too much. So Imma jerk us both off, sweet as honey, yeah?” He waits patiently for Cullen to numbly hum his assent. “And afterwards you are gonna lick it all off, sounds good?”

Cullen nods again, disjointedly, his hand coming up to cup Bull’s face, “I just want—want it to be good,” he explains, his voice rough. He doesn’t think he has sounded this overexcited since one of their first times, and, Maker, does he not have it in him to feel embarrassed right now.

“I promise it’s being good—you’re being great. Just like morning quickies are supposed to go.”

It makes Cullen laugh, his fingers slowly tracing Bull’s jaw and lips.

Bull raises up a bit hand coming to grab the jar with oil, snorting lightly, which makes Cullen look up, using his arm to prop himself up and take a better look at Bull, “What are you laughing at?”

“Nothin’ just—the label is fucking hilarious,” Bull clears his throat before he speaks again, “Madame Plaisir’s Massage Oil. The premium unguent sold by Madame at her _premium_ stall in Val Royeaux now ready for the weary lovers hoping to _spice_ things up in their bedroom!” Bull’s poor imitation of an Orlesian accent is atrocious, and it makes Cullen groan for very different reasons than he should in bed, “Try our different varieties! Experiment an increment in your potency and _marvel_ at the _wonders_ of nature!”

Cullen cannot stop laughing, Bull’s own laughter more contagious than it has any right to be. His mind still racing for the mere fact that sex could be like this, something he now takes for granted but that had taken such a long time to grasp after years of Chantry teachings. Not that the Chantry had taught them about sex being inadequate or inherently wrong, but there was a long way between ‘You will honour yourself and the one you love under the Maker by sharing carnal pleasure’, and whatever _this_ was.

“Maker, I don’t know how the guy who wrote that didn’t get the jar shoved up their arse,” Cullen manages to say once it has died down, brushing the back of his hand over his eyes.

A very undignified yelp comes out of his lips at the feeling of cold fluid starting to drip steadily over his crotch. He tries to straighten himself up and look down, but Bull’s left hand pushes him back down, just as Cullen catches a glimpse of Bull’s right hand, applying a very liberal amount of oil over his own erect cock. Even after all these years, after all this time—Cullen can still feel his throat going dry, more so when Bull dips down, the hand that’s been holding Cullen down sliding to support Bull’s own weight on the mattress as he grabs both of their dicks with a warm slick steady hand.

Cullen suddenly feels so small he wants to scream. His hands scrambling for purchase over Bull’s back, sliding fruitlessly to try and steady himself, to try and bring Bull even closer.

He feels so overcome with feelings he cannot name he wishes the tears were explanation enough. And he feels such unbridled joy at being held down here, at the feeling of both of their cocks sliding together in Bull’s hand that he begins to chant Bull’s name. A prayer. Low and under his breath, closing his eyes, as if by not seeing his crooked smile and keen eye Cullen could avoid tethering down the precipice earlier. As if he could avoid complete obliteration.

“When we get to Skyhold—when we get there, _kadan_ , I’m gonna chain you up to my bed, your arms up on the headboard, and properly make you scream.”

Cullen whines, begs, a litany of _Maker_ , _yes_ , concatenated _please_ s and _Bull_ s in his own uninterrupted orison.

“I picked this—” Bull grunts, his fast and sharp pace stuttering, and Cullen knows he’s not the only one feeling as if he were about to fall, “—toy up in Val Royeaux, and Koslun’s Ball’s, it’s gonna look so fucking pretty stuffed up that gorgeous ass of yours.” Bull’s grin cuts through his erratic breathing, and just the promise of it makes Cullen twist his face away, back beginning to infinitesimally arch up, up, up… bowing against Bull’s body, pressing himself against it as much as he can—as much as…

Bull kisses him. He kisses Bull back. He can feel his tongue, a rumbling groan, how it ripples through both as if they were one and—

He comes with a roar. He cannot hear his own voice, only its vibration against his throat. He cannot see. He supposes his eyes are closed. Maybe covered. He hasn’t had an orgasm like this in _months_.

Spots dance in front of his vision, little black dots, like specs of dust all over the ceiling, and bed, and Bull’s back, Bull who is still trying not to fall over Cullen’s body. His huge body hoisted up, his slick hands propping him up.

Cullen can feel it, after a while, how wet his crotch is, and as he manages to peer down he can see his lower stomach covered in seed—if his or Bull’s, he doesn’t know. Probably both. Very tentatively he lowers his hand, scooping a bit with his fingers and licking it, tasting it, grounding himself thanks to the pungent flavour, thanking Andraste for having washed up the night prior.

“Hey, you went completely out,” Bull huffs, falling to his side, one of his feet kicking what Cullen supposes is the oil jar, as it clicks upon falling into the floor. “You OK?”

“Yeah, sorry I—I was—it was a lot,” he apologizes, rolling so that he can lie on his side. His lips hurt, whether it is from smiling, screaming or biting at them for every sound he had tried to muffle down, he doesn’t really care.

Bull is also smiling down at him, his hand coming up to cup the back of his head so that he can bring him closer, “Four months and you lose all that nice stamina you had in you, _kadan_ ,” Bull tuts playfully, his hand palming Cullen’s flank slowly, as if he wanted to soothe his still rapid breathing, his rabbit-like pulse.

“You are one to talk,” he nudges Bull with his feet, who only moves closer, as if wanting to annoy him. Planting a quick kiss on the tip of Cullen’s nose.

They bask the silence for a while, Bull insisting on Cullen to remain close and thwarting every attempt he makes to leave to grab something so they can clean up. After the fifth raspberry on his stomach and almost the third tickling attempt Bull gives up, standing to march to the gold-rimmed washbasin to pick up the rag placed there.

Cullen watches him clean himself, watches the white towel pass through each curve and crevice of Bull’s body—he feels content, whole.

Bull returns shortly after, padding towards the bed wriggling the wet cloth at Cullen before he unceremoniously slaps it on his stomach, a hiss bitten out of his lips at the cold water. Bull doesn’t let go though, and thoroughly cleans Cullen, who is still laying down, from a sitting position, rinsing his stomach first to afterwards move a bit lower, no ulterior motives in sight.

Cullen’s a bit out of it, hypnotised by how gently Bull’s hand goes up, then down, then through, then slowly moves up his torso—

Bull’s rumble catches him unaware, “You’d look amazing on _vitaar_.”

“How? Dead?” he laughs wrily, his smile still in place when Bull passes one of the corners of the rag to brush Cullen’s face; first his neck, up his chin and round his cheekbones, pausing at his forehead to finish delineating the bridge of his nose.

“Nah, a mix without the poisonous bit perhaps…” He slowly starts tracing scribbles; lines, dots and mellow curves over Cullen’s body, “ _Taashath_ over your head, _ataashi_ over your heart, _hissera_ ,” Bull seems to ponder the next one, brushing his hand over Cullen’s stomach.

“They have meaning? Outside of battle?”

Bull nods, concentrated, his hand still catching stray rivulets of water with his fingertips, “Wishes for those who march ahead, notes to oneself as to not forget—sometimes even notes among companions or lovers. _Tama_ s usually try to dissuade us from doing it, say it gets us away from our purpose and that they should only have a meaning greater than us. As some see it—they already do, it’s just purpose out of what the Qun identifies as such.”

Cullen hums in understanding, “What do the ones that you have chosen mean then? One’s ‘dragon’ and—”

“Ah, little _imekari_ , you’ll have to learn those as we go,” Bull laughs, patting his side, “besides there’s nothing fun in simply telling you, you have to—”

Rapid knocking on the door makes both of them tense, bodies taut like a bowstring. “Commander! It’s urgent! Are you there?”

He tries to gather sheets around him as best as he can, annoyedly looking out at Bull who is smiling teasingly, still sprawled over the bed, “Maker, I—a minute please!” He really tries not to squeak, rolling out of bed in search of his undershirt to at least cover himself up.

“Cullen we really don’t have time for this!” he hears Cassandra say, loud and clear.

The events that follow happen almost too fast and too slow. Cassandra opens the door energetically, the scout that accompanies her ducking out of sight as they are met with the sight of bundled up Cullen and a stark-naked Bull waving his hand from the bed.

And if later on Cassandra refuses to look at any of them in the eye, and Varric keeps pestering her for information Cullen refuses to divulge—well, it truly seems like they will feature in the upcoming issue of _Masqued Murmurs Monthly_ , much to Cullen’s chagrin and Bull’s amusement.

The Inquisition getting disbanded is a bigger relief than any of them could have hoped for. Because as covers for court intrigue go, it truly does an outstanding job of obliterating anyone’s interest for who is sleeping with whom in a now-defunct organisation—for a week or so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flash _qunlat_ glossary:  
> - _Taashath_ : calm  
> - _hissera_ : hope


	4. Epilogue: The Bones of the World

Steady gusts of wind make sleet clash against his skin, feeling as if a small army of diminutive crystals are trying to pierce through his skin. He’s glad that the wind hides the sigh of relief he utters once his knocking at the door gets answered, hurriedly entering Cullen’s office, which even if cold, is still a proper refuge against what’s considered in the Frostback’s as early autumn weather.

The heavy tarps of canvas placed on the roof rattle, a steady drip echoing somewhere up the tower, the brasier placed in a corner bringing meagre heat to chase the cold out of such a big structure. Bull’s already decided for the foreseeable future they will be sleeping in his room, no matter what crappy excuse Cullen tries to come up with.

The flapping of wings brings his attention lower, a raven perched on Cullen’s dummy seems to be trying to shake some of the water that’s clumping its feathers away, squawking as if to protest when Bull manages to close the door.

“You wanted to see me?” he asks, eye still on the bird, coming closer to Cullen, who’s almost hunched over his desk, face hidden under his hands, which at the moment seem to be the only thing keeping him up.

“They gave it to me,” Cullen simply mutters.

“Care to raise your pretty face and repeat?”

“They gave it to me!” Cullen insists distressed, waving a piece of parchment at Bull, as if it was supposed to explain everything.

Bull grips it from one corner, sighing as he sees water beginning to fall in small droplets from the tip of his horns—well.

“I really don’t understand. It must be a mistake, it’s too much. Leliana probably forwarded it to the wrong person—” Bull can hear him talking over the rain, tirelessly beginning to pace behind his desk, from the shelves on the left to the dummy on the right and back at it again.

The piece of parchment is written in a lavish steady hand, both the paper and ink expensive, Nightingale’s signature at the bottom reason enough for both. The letter is brief, 5 acres of land, including a cottage, barn and accompanied housing facilities are to be put in the hands of one Cullen Rutherford, papers of ownership to be received shortly so they can be presented to the pertinent administration in the area of the Bannorn in Ferelden.

“Well…”

“Five acres! Maker, I cannot own all that land! I will send an urgent raven—”

“Or just…accept it. You’ve spent your entire life serving the Chantry, I don’t think it’s a bad idea for them to start paying you back,” Bull shrugs, seeing Cullen approach in his direction at an incredible speed.

“Five acres!” Cullen says, covering his mouth with both of his hands, as if he was going to try to muffle a silent scream, before his eyes seem to finally register Bull. “Maker’s breath, you must be freezing. I am sorry—I will go fetch something.”

He disappears in less than it takes Bull to blink, ducking to the chest he has in the corner of the room to come up with a threadbare towel and thick woollen blanket, his hands doing quick work of drying Bull’s arms and back.

Bull witnesses him with the gentlest smile he can muster.“Hey, _kadan_ ,” he says, once that Cullen seems to have calmed down, too concentrated in dabbing the towel over Bull’s stomach and chest.

“Hm?”

“I’ll need a place to come by, you know. Not that the Charger’s won’t be operating further up North, but we’ve been doing tons of shit down here too,” Bull starts tentatively, measuring each and every one of Cullen’s reactions along with his words. “A place where we can get some warm food, maybe a warm bed…”

“You can come by. Whenever—I mean, I—I don’t know how many people I’ll be able to house— _we_ will be able to house,” Cullen is wringing the towel in between his hands, his eyes fixed in how it has started to form a small puddle of dripping cold water.

“Plus, Krem is getting laid and I don’t know with whom, it’s making me antsy,” Bull laughs.

“Because you like knowing things,” Cullen snorts, doing the most ungodly bad impression of him Bull has seen anyone make _ever_.

“We could also lend you a hand repairing. I know you have a few ex-templars who are already in, but you know. We could fix that cottage for you, outfit the barn for some horses and the Chargers and—”

“Us. I can—we can fix the cottage for us, if that’s alright. You could—leave that giant skull you carry around there, and if you ever wanna move you could—come pick it up,” Cullen stutters, draping the towel over his table as his hands move to unfold the blanket and offer it to Bull tentatively. “If you’d like…”

“Shit, yeah. I’d like that a lot.” Bull can feel something warm, but also tender, bubbling up on his insides. Like a puppy, or something very small and furry. Something fragile and capable of bringing infinite joy. It’s a bit new, like the past few times he’s felt it, always around Cullen, always when those amber eyes are looking at him full of hope, as if someone was seeing him whole in a very long, long while.

“That’s—that’s great. I—I still think that five acres is a lot, though,” Cullen smiles, laughter bubbling out of him, one of his astray curls bobbing as his hands come around Bull’s neck, tightening the blanket over his shoulders.

“I mean—I could always bring you something to take care of, like dragons. That guy? Frederick of Serault? Told the boss that they can be bred in captivity so…”

“Andraste’s pearly bossom, no! You are not getting dragons there. I’ll allow dracoliscs and maybe—a nuggaloppe, but dragons are a no.”

“But _kadan_! Dracoliscs stink!” Bull whines playfully.

“Well, you haven’t heard me complain about your smell ever, so,” Cullen grins, pushing himself up his tiptoes to peck Bull gently on the cheek, “maybe it just gets some getting used to.”

He ends up perched over Cullen’s desk, watching him pen his response down to Leliana. Correcting him when a sentence sounds a bit too aggressive or dry.

Bull’s still sitting up there when Cullen finally deems the ink dry enough to fold the parchment and seal it with bright red wax, and as he presses the sign of the now extinct Inquisition he says, softly, as if embarrassed, “I have nothing much to offer you.”

Bull smiles. “Believe me, _kadan_. Whatever you have, is more than enough.”

When Cullen looks up, something glints on his eyes.

Outside, the storm rages on.

Inside, Bull feels as if it were the warmest of summers.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic and chapter titles taken from [The Body Canto](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Qun).  
> Consider commenting or leaving kudos if you enjoyed, they keep my motivation well fed :D


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